


The Muse

by Sharzdah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Historical References, Illegal Activities, Implied Relationships, New York City, Non-Linear Narrative, Period Typical Attitudes, Power Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, Rewrite, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, suburban life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-09-22 14:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17061593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharzdah/pseuds/Sharzdah
Summary: By the 1970s, Sansa Bolton, the dutiful wife of the late notorious Ramsey Bolton, the daughter of the infamously tragic Ned "The Lord" Stark, would be known as, "The Queen of the North," one of the biggest cocaine distributors in America, all because of a goddamn song.It was funny how life worked out.Revised.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a story I started late this summer named, "The Matriarch." After suffering one of the worst bouts of story-specific writer's block and realizing just how many errors were in the original story, I decided to revamp it. 
> 
> Copyright infringement of any kind is not intended. All historical (and topic-specific) mishaps are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**_1968_ **

The first time Sansa heard those lyrics, she couldn't move. Those words— such simple yet disturbing words, supported by a strong guitar and drums. And a background hum so haunted, she feared it would follow her into the grave.

_Hey Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand?_

She stood at the entrance of her living room a sizable room which décor was inspired by the Roaring Twenties. The Golden Age, her husband would say, "The age when my folks finally made real money." It was an attractive sight, according to most people who had walked through this space, but Sansa, it was far too gaudy. But Ramsey had always been the gaudy type as demonstrated by the large painting of a wolf was in her direct sight, hung unstop of a grand fireplace. Large enough, striking enough for her to forget what she was doing.

What she was afraid of.

The majestic wolf captured her attention until the next stanza beat against her ear drums.

_"Hey Joe, I hear you shot your old lady down…"_

It was a rock n' roll song. There was no doubt about it. It almost made her cringe. She never cared for the genre, being more of a doo-wop, Frank Sinatra kind of a woman. But this song spoke to her. More than any priest or adviser ever had.

This singer was asking this Joe the same questions she had asked him.

"I'm not sure, Ma'am," the maid replied, glancing at the radio, a little apprehensive of her employer's reaction. She had only been employed for a couple of months; the third maid of the year. "It was on the radio. I thought it was too quiet about her, and I didn't hear anything from Mr. Bolton, and I—"

Sansa zoned out the maid's rambling when the man over the radio shouted, quite passionately, " _I shot her_!"

She gulped.

"That was Hey Joe, by the incredible, the invincible, Jimi Hendrix," the disc jockey announced moments later to his audience over the radio before switching to the next song.

Jimi Hendrix.

But how could he have known?"

* * *

 " _Shot…?" Sansa didn't believe her ears, her eyes. But there he was, standing about twenty feet from her with his car behind him, parked on the side of the road, confessing to something so horrible, so out in the open. "What do you mean you shot her?"_

_"She was messin' around with another man!" Reek exclaimed, pulling out his shotgun. He was on an abandoned road in upstate New York with a woman and no one else. No phone or police station in sight. If he pulled the trigger, he might get away with it for some time._

_"Myranda wasn't yours!"_

* * *

Reek. Theon Greyjoy. Yet another man who had fell under the spell of Myranda despite knowing full and well that she was Ramsey's girl. Such a dumb move. He had worked with Ramsey for years; he had to have known what would happen if he dared laid a hand on such a desirable woman. Theon had his issues, no doubt, and might be too jealous for his own good, no doubt, but he was no fool.

Or so she had thought.

Sansa shook her head. What was she thinking? Jimi Hendrix. There was no reason why he would be privy to the Theon-Myranda debacle. He couldn't have possibly known that she had essentially allowed Theon to escape to the Iron Islands, off the coast of Mexico.

_"I'm going way down south; way down where I can free…"_

"Mrs. Bolton?"

Sansa snapped out of her thoughts and faced her maid. "Sorry, yes?"

"Would you like me to turn it off?"

Sansa shook her head once again, rubbing her hands together. There was a breeze in the room that she hadn't expected.

"There's no need," she said. "Continue on with your work."

* * *

 The song forced Sansa to rethink her "Theon" strategy.

Perhaps,  _Hey, Joe_  served as a divine sign, telling her she could no longer keep such a dreaded secret or triggering her guilt to rear its ugly head. After all, she had been the only who saw Theon flee into the arms of his powerful sister, a sometimes ally of her husband's—but she didn't have much choice in the matter.

She couldn't do this anymore.

She had to tell her husband.

* * *

Ramsey Bolton, one of the most fear gangsters in the country, had spent the last hour inside his prized office, a room located on the first floor, overlooking the home's massive backyard and the Long Island Sound. It was tucked away from the rest of the home, not easily accessible from the large living room, the kitchen and dining room— it was one of the few rooms that Sansa was more or less banned from when guests were present.

It never truly bothered Sansa; the less she spent being in her husband's way, the easier her life would be. Inside that office was where the "magic" happened: the deals presented on the table, who to pay off, what to steal and from whom, who to kill. She was shielded from everything important to Ramsey.

But then again, she wasn't. She might not have been one of the big bosses in the organization, but she knew her away around the organization, collecting information and some loyal allies along the way.

Sansa carefully opened the white double doors, grateful that the carpenters had recently fixed the load creaking sounds and walked inside.

"My, Lord, darling…" she called out as if she was announcing dinner. Something she hadn't done in a few minutes. Prior to Myranda's disappearance only two weeks prior, when Ramsey wasn't conducting business, he was with her inside her penthouse in mid-town Manhattan.

"What is it now, Sansa?"

It wasn't the politest greeting, but it wasn't an explicit demand to leave either so Sansa continued to press inside, ensuring that she didn't bump into or stepped on anything importantly. "I can't visit my own husband?" she asked, trying to lighten up the already tensed atmosphere, but her efforts fell flat, evident by the way Ramsey's grip tightened around his coffee mug handle.

Hey, Joe, where you going with that gun… Those damned lyrics with that guitar and somber hum refused to stop playing inside of Sansa's mind as she cautiously approached her husband.

"What is it now?" Ramsey asked once again, not masking his annoyance, not once removing his eyes from the sight in front of him to look at his wife when she reached his side. He didn't want her here. He never wanted her here, and Sansa knew that the only reason why she wasn't floating in the Long Island Sound was because of her pedigree.

And because of Petyr Baelish.

Sansa let out a soft sigh and followed her husband's eyes. She admired the sight of her precious garden and the large body of water, glistening in the distance. It was such a beautiful day with not a cloud in the blue sky. It was mid-April of 1968, the perfect for all of the flowers to bloom. Especially her precious tulips. She could see them—pink, yellow and white—from her vantage point, being carefully tended to by the gardener. The sight in front of her was so serene, a sharp contrast to how she felt inside.

Sansa cleared her throat and asked, "Would you ever hurt me?"

It was a dangerous question for a dangerous man. It was a stupid one, if Sansa was to be honest. He had done so before and there was no doubt he would do so again. He wasn't particularly physical to her, giving his romantic personality (that horrid wedding night notwithstanding); he liked his attacks to be more emotional.

"Do I have a reason to?"

The question was a loosely-masked dare; it was an accusation and it cut Sansa to the core. But she couldn't back out now; she had spoken too much. Her resolved had to remain or else her husband would believe that she was playing games. She was never allowed to play games and walk away unscathed. "I know I am not allowed to be involve myself in your business, but I heard you talking about Reek, Theon, and—"

"And what if I did speak of Reek," Ramsey asked in his usual nonchalant but steely tone. "What is it to you?"

Sansa's gaze dropped. It was another dare, this time causing her to slowly lose her resolve. "I…" she trailed off, pressing her mind to come up with the right words. "I saw him before he disappearance. He was getting into his car, heading to Mexico with a shotgun," she finally confessed. "He was heading south. To Mexico. To his sister because he needed to be free. He killed Myranda, shot her—that was that he told me. He told me everything…"

* * *

_"Theon, please," Sansa cried, holding her arms out as if they could shield her from the potential shot from the gun. "I'm not Ramsey. I'm not going to do anything to you."_

_Theon wanted to believe her; she could see in it his shifty eyes, but he couldn't take to take any chances. "Promise me," he demanded, voice shaking from anxiety, shame, anger. "You won't tell a soul."_

_"Please, Theon…"_

_"Promise me," Theon demanded yet again, this time aiming the barrel at the petrified woman. "Or I swear to God, I'll pull the goddamn trigger!"_

* * *

Sansa blinked away the memory and took a step back, glancing down both at her husband's hands, both balled into fists. She flinched, anticipating a slap or a punch. He was in one of those moods again and this time, it was all her doing.

She should have kept her mouth shut—

"That was my woman," Ramsey snapped, now standing inches in front of his wife's thinly-masked frightened face. His presence forced Sansa to look up at him "And you let him get away?"

"He had a gun to my head. What was I supposed to do?" Sansa cried.

Ramsey growled.

Sansa's body stiffened, bracing for a hit that would never come. Her eyes opened, watching Ramsey take a couple steps back, slowly loosening his fists.

He cursed under his breath and turned around, facing the window again. "Fuck, how could I be that stupid?"

Sansa's stance slightly relaxed as she digested her husband's words. Ramsey was many things, but he wasn't stupid. He wouldn't have lasted long in the business if he had been. He was just human, and like all humans, he trusted the wrong man out of misjudgment—not that Sansa dared to tell him that.

This was a surreal moment for Sansa for this was the time she realized that he had feelings. Outside of sadistic pleasure. Apparently, he was capable of experiencing grief, after all. He was standing there, occasionally pacing around, pulling at his hair like a man who realized he had been betrayed, played as a fool.

Sansa was tempted to lend out a sympathetic hand and pull her inside into a tight, warm hug. But she held back. He wouldn't have wanted her sympathy. He, to be quite honest, would never deserve it. So, she decided to stay put and convey as much empathy and regret as possible through her actions and words.

"I am truly sorry, My Lord. I know I should have told you earlier, but—"

"You said that Reek was in Mexico?"

Sansa snapped out of her thoughts. Reek, he was now talking about Theon. She didn't hesitate to deliver a simple answer of, "Yes."

"And you're positive that he left because of Myranda?"

"That's what he told me," Sansa replied quietly, bowing her head slightly, regretting her decision to break the promise Theon had forced her to make. Not because of the man, himself; she never truly cared much for him, but because of the consequences. She should have just been oblivious to everything like everyone expected her to be. "He made me promise not to tell anyone or else he would kill me—"

Her words were cut off once again by the raise of Ramsey's hand. He stood up straight, cleared his throat a couple of times, and Sansa witnessed the change in his expression. The grief was gone, replaced by an emotion she knew all too well—stormy, simmering anger, violent. He looked ready to wage war—for one brief moment, Sansa wanted to believe that it was on her behalf. That Ramsey was upset because Reek had threatened her into silence. But this wasn't the time to be foolish—it was for Myranda. It had always been for Myranda.

He would clash against anyone for Myranda. Would kill for her. Would die for her, leaving his lawfully wedded-wife behind with everything but the chance to escape.

She should have kept her mouth shut.

Or maybe it was beneficial that she hadn't.

* * *

 Sansa was informed of her husband's fate a few weeks later.

Officially.

Unofficially, she had already known.

She just didn't know how to proceed.

Everything had happened so fast.

Even after one week had passed since Ramsey's demise, and she still did not know how to see or how to react.

She should have felt devastated, but didn't.

She should have felt relieved, but couldn't.

She supposed she shouldn't be surprised by the turn of events. It was inevitable. Ramsey had lived by the sword, and it only made sense that he died by it—she had dreams about that day. Dreams, never nightmares.

Maybe, she would feel free, just like in her dreams. No more watching her back, fearing the worst. Hoping she hadn't stepped on the wrong toes. No more running into sadists, into men pointing a gun to her head. No more dealings with husbands who would rather raise Hell over his mistress than his own damn wife.

She should be worried, but concluded that she really did not need to.

No one would expect a damn thing.

After all, in this world, she was more or less a non-factor. She was just a wife, married to well-known vicious gangster with a dauntingly electric presence in the North. She was arm candy, proof that Ramsey could get anything he wanted including the daughter of the tragically famed Ned Stark. Not Arya—no, he wouldn't be able to handle her—but the eldest one, the one void of any moxie, intelligence and determination to do anything outside of managing a household, hosting and attending parties.

It was a common misconception held by everyone but one, and Sansa did nothing to undermine it. She reveled in it.

* * *

 "I am truly sorry for your loss, my dear. I cannot  _imagine_  what I do would without my husband.  _Ah_ , I just don't know what to say," Septa Mordane exclaimed, bringing a hand to her chest, sighing in her usual dramatic fashion. “How _are_ you feeling about everything?"

Norma "Septa" Mordane might have been known for her dramatics, but Sansa did not mind. She knew those words came from the heart of the older, strict but generally pleasant mother of three and wife of a big-time playwright.

Sansa forced a smile as she accepted a tea from the waiter. Three days after finding out about Ramsey, she had been invited to a tea house in lower Manhattan, at her friend's insistence. Septa was worried about Sansa, wanted to get the new widow off of Long Island and into something more pleasant on this May afternoon. Sansa appreciated the gesture.

"Thank you for your concern," Sansa said. "I'm adjusting... to everything."

Septa might have been a friend, but not one who was privy to the private marriage lives of Ramsey and Sansa Bolton. Not many people were.

"You must spend a holiday with me in Miami," she insisted. "Have you ever been there? Absolutely beautiful. Beautiful beaches. Wonderful weather. It's far less crowded than those beach towns like Atlantic City and Ocean City. You'll have a blast for sure."

"I appreciate the invite," Sansa said. "But I think I'm going to stay up North for a bit. I ought to handle of some matters..."

"Oh, but of course. I know there’s so much you must get in order: the funeral, the bills and such. But one of these days, you ought to get your mind off of everything. Hence Miami," Septa suggesting, giving Sansa a small, yet warm smile. "When is the awake again? The funeral? Speaking of the funeral, do you want me to bring anything to the repass? I can have my cook whip up something. How about some pie? I know much how you love pie."

Sansa took a sip of her tea, carefully placed the cup down. "The awake is next week. Only a couple of days from now. The funeral, the following."

"And the pie?"

"Only if it's not a hassle."

Septa dramatically gasped, clenching her chest once again. " _Absolutely not_. I know we're all watching our figures, but we deserve some sweets once in a while. She stopped to give Sansa a once-over, shook her head and sighed. "I suppose that statement is really for me." She pinched the inside of her arm. "You're perfectly fine."

"So, are you, Septa," Sansa said, providing a polite smile that would make her mother proud. "So, are you."

"Oh, you're very kind," Septa said, honest with her words as she pulled back curly, shoulder-length hair with a clip. She quickly took out a compact mirror to inspect the damage her cup of coffee did to her red lip stick. "You don't deserve what happened to you."

Sansa sighed. "Norma…"

"I cannot believe all that's happened. First, your husband went missing back in April, and then the following month, _this week_ , we were told that he had been found in that godforsaken factory building. _Dead_. Torn into pieces. Unfortunate."

Sansa cleared her throat before reaching for her tea once again. Septa wouldn't be able to see the lack of grief in Sansa's eyes for they were shielded by her shades. "It is unfortunate, indeed."

* * *

One week had passed since the rest of the world learned of Ramsey's demise, and _Hey, Joe_ still played on repeat inside Sansa's head. She considered talking about it; after all, she did have a shrink, but was instantly distracted by the preparations of the funeral.

The funeral would be a grand one, hosted at St. Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan. Anyone who was anyone would be there— politicians, socialites, entertainers, "businessmen" and their families. The media was for sure going to be there.  _We're expecting at least, ten thousand people_ , Petyr Baelish had told her the night before.

Sansa still couldn't believe it. Ramsey had been a hated man. Why would anyone want to see  _him_? Mourn over  _him_? Or maybe people would be there to make sure the man was  _dead_. Just like how it had been at Joffrey's funeral.

She might have hated Ramsey, but he was still her husband. She was still his wife, and as son, she still needed to put on a show for audience who expected nothing less.

Sansa had declined all suggestions regarding changing Ramsey's appearance for the awake, providing an excuse to everyone that she even admitted herself was nothing but lies. But in reality, she believed that Ramsey needed to leave this world with his soul inside out—He had lived like a monster, even enjoyed being one, and thus should be interred to his final resting place as one.

Her mother-in-law refused to speak to her.

Her sisters-in-law refused to look at her.

If this had been years before, Sansa would have been sensitive to that fact; she had always been a people-pleaser, but now, she couldn't give a damn about them. She wouldn't mourn any of their demises, not with the way they had treated her all these years.

She checked on them to the left of her, giving them a blank stare when the dowager Mrs. Bolton looked up through her tear-stained eyes, expectant. Sansa only raised an eyebrow before glancing to her right, past Sandor. A sliver of her expecting to see Jon Snow standing there with his crew, reluctantly hanging around for Sansa's sake and no one else's. But he wasn't there.

No one from her side of the family was here.

Arya was in Vietnam doing Lord-knows-what. Bran was finding himself in the woods of northwest. Rickon was dead, officially killed by a child predator,  _unofficially_  shot down by Ramsey's hand. Robb and her mother, the Frey's. And her dear father, by the Lannister's.

It was just Sansa on this side of the world.

And Jon, but Jon wasn't here. He would spend the next several months inside of a jail, after being charge with a simple misdemeanor a few days back. Possession of an unregistered firearm was considered a felony, but the man's legal counsel made things happen. Several months were better than several years.

Sansa swallowed down any feelings of disappointment. It was the best, she finally accepted. It would have been bold, and downright suicidal for Jon to be by her side.

She needed to get the man out of her head. She needed to accept the fact that he wouldn't return to her life until the end of the year, at the earliest. It was just too hot in the North for his presence.

"It's a damn shame that it's come to this."

Sansa glanced up, inquisitive, at the man standing beside her—Sandor Clegane, known as the "Hound." Ramsey's main enforcer and only one of the few who had never given her a hard time since she joined the Bolton's. They were both in front of viewing room, facing the expensive casket that housed Ramsey's cold form.

Sandor didn't mean those words. He was never found of him. He had only followed Ramsey's orders because that was that he had been hired to do. Sansa often wondered why the man bothered to stay. Other families would have welcomed him with open arms, out of fear of his abilities or respect for his reputation.

"Who do you think did it?" Sansa asked before taking one step forward to peer over the masterpiece. Ramsey looked the same; just as he had been found. Despite his mother's efforts to make him look presentable. It was a shame that they hadn't done more damage to the face.

"What's the official story again?" Sandor asked under his breath as a couple of mourners passed by.

The question was rhetorical, more than anything.

Sansa did not respond. Her focus remained on her husband despite feeling the enforcer's gaze on her. She wondered if he knew everything. The truth. The story, the unofficial version, the one that wasn't told to Ramsey's associates or family. She knew that the rest of the soldiers, the lieutenants and such harbored no suspicion. But Sandor, standing tall to her next, his strong, tense shoulders, the anxious twitch in the man's eyes—it told her that he had.

She was relieved that he held enough respect for her not voice his opinion. He was usually the kind to speak his mind, no matter who was in his presence. Perhaps that could explain his terse relationship with his brother.

"I fucking hate funerals."

An ironic statement coming from a man who single-handedly kept various undertakers in business.

"Technically, we are at an awake,” Sansa quietly pointed out, peeking to her right to see her mother-in-law in hysterics. She thought about comforting the wretched woman, but the she hadn't comforted her when her mother, Catelyn, had been brutally murdered. Perhaps her reluctance to leave her post was a moment of immaturity, but Sansa could care less at the moment. “Funerals are not designed to be pleasant, Mr. Clegane,"

"I guess."

Sansa didn't have to look up; she sensed the executioner rolling his eyes. She rubbed her hands again only stopping to play with her wedding ring. A five-carat diamond, platinum monstrosity, not bought out of love, but out of assurance. The man had power. The man had money, and she ought to be happy about it. The money became more enticing now that the man was dead.

"I appreciate your concern," Sansa spoke up again. She didn't give the man any reference to this "concern," but she had a feeling that she didn't have to. Cruel he might be; stupid, he certainly was not. "All I ask is for you to take your suspicions to your grave."

"I ain't a fucking rat."

"I know, but I thought I would ask," Sansa said before checking out her at mother-in-law once more. The waterworks had returned as she continued to mourn, quite dramatically, within the arms of the wife of one of Ramsey's lieutenants. "For reassurance."

* * *

It would take years for the official story behind Ramsey Bolton’s death to be made public.

Luckily, for Sansa, by the time that happened, it wouldn’t even matter anymore.

But for now, she would just play the part—a grieving widow beside herself. A grieving widow who would pick up the pieces of her shattered heart and her husband’s business, out of obligation.

It was fine, she supposed.

She had been through far worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I discovered the 1966 song, Hey Joe, several months ago while I was shuffling through Pandora's "Vietnam War Era” station. It's seriously one of the most haunting songs I've ever heard (and I had to write something about it).
> 
> 2\. Long Island is located to the east of New York City (it's a horizontal piece of land that sticks out into the Atlantic Ocean). Long Island Sound is the body of water resting between the northern coast of Long Island and the western coast of Westchester (just north of NYC)
> 
> 3\. Norma Mordane is Septa Mordane from the show/book. I didn't recall any mention of a first name, so I gave her one.


	2. Two

The funeral turned out just as Sansa planned.

There was nothing else she would like to say about the manner. Ramsey was buried six feet under at Woodlawn Cemetery and out of her life.

And now, she could breathe.

* * *

Ramsey did not die in Mexico.

He didn't have the chance to.

Jon wouldn't let him cross the border into New Jersey unscathed, and by the time it was all done, Ramsey was left to wither away in the basement of an abandoned factory building. The very building where Ramsey had committed some of his worst offenses. The irony.

The building might have been a favorite of Ramsey, but it was a sore spot in a neighborhood full of families living their lives inside grand suburban homes along the shores of the Long Island Sound.

And now, with Ramsey dead, Sansa finally had the right to do something about it; after all, the building was now under her possession. But thankfully, she didn't have to put in much effort into the demolition. The town had already complained about it and work began a week later; no doubt with the influence of Petyr Baelish.

"It's for the greater good," he told the police one May more. Both men were standing on the sidewalk, watching the contractors methodically take the building apart. "No one wants to see such a monstrosity in their backyard. People pay taxes to live comfortably."

Sansa, standing a step behind the men, nodded.

The police chief mumbled something under his breath Sansa couldn't catch and took out a cigarette and a lighter. "I agree."

He offered Petyr a cigarette; the man accepted.

He offered Sansa one; she politely declined.

"I'm glad we were able to come to a decision," Petyr said, grinning before lighting up the tobacco. "And a quick one at that. Once this building's been destroyed, we can all go back to living."

Honestly, Sansa didn't think the building was a big deal, but it did give an opportunity to destroy any evidence laying around.

She caught the police's sympathetic eye and gave him a small sad. The man was thinking about Ramsey and the fact that he was standing next to his grieving wife. Sansa appreciated the gesture; the chief had always been a good man; the kind that would volunteer as Santa at the annual town Christmas bash and greet everyone he encountered. He was an unassuming man, much like herself in a way, a non-threat.

"And you, Mrs. Bolton?" the chief asked, this time with pity. "Is this alright with you? I know you own the property and how much this building meant to the Bolton family, but I have to agree with Mr. Baelish."

"So, do I," Sansa said, taking a moment to grimace at the site in front of her. The building was no longer much of one, even before the demolition began. Most of its interior was destroyed by the fire; through the shattered windows, she could see the debris. The land surrounding the structure was marred by soot, bricks and burnt wood. “I wouldn't want to see this monstrosity whilst walking with the children or the dogs.”

Oh, her precious hounds.

The chief tipped his hat, while Petyr smirked at Sansa, satisfied by the widow's safe response. If he expected a pleased reaction to his approval, Sansa did not give him one. She was tired; all she wanted to do was return home, maybe sip some tea and just  _rest_.

"Ah, still hoping for a house full of children?"

Sansa tensed at the question, but then relaxed. She had known the man for years, even before she had married Ramsey; he meant no harm. She gave him a tight smile. "One day," she said, feigning hope, but she couldn't see it happening in the near future. "I would like to have some. One day."

That  _day_  had happened quite a few times over the past few years.

Sansa had always wanted children; she wanted a whole horde of them. Boys and girls. But certainly not with  _him_. It wouldn't have been fair to her future children, to the world, to have such a wretched man as a father. To witness his brutality towards others and his wife—she had been pregnant twice while married and terminated them both.

Illegal, it might have been. Morally wrong, some might have argued, but Sansa couldn't imagine bringing a child into this world, bearing Ramsey's name.

The chief was a smart man; he could sense the uncomfortable air settling among everyone and he wisely changed the subject. “Do you have any idea could have done this? Set this building on fire?”

Petyr had his eyes on Sansa as she shrugged. She had her own thoughts, but no one had to know their full extent. Not even Petyr. “I’m sorry, chief, but I don’t involve myself in such affairs.”

The chief understood but, “Anyone?”

Petyr intervened. “I believe we have established already that Mrs. Bolton’s focus is solely on recovering from the untimely loss over her husband?”

Sansa sighed. He didn’t have to answer for her. The chief wasn’t expecting anything, only trying to express his sympathies and engaged in small talk. “If I receive some information, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

The chief removed his hat and a ran a hand through his thinning blond hair. He put his hat back on and said, “I’d appreciate that. And once again, Mrs. Bolton, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I am, too.”

* * *

Sansa did not play a significant role in Ramsey’s death. She didn’t hunt him down and drag him down into his basement of horrors. She did not deliver the final blow.

But she hadn’t done anything to stop it.

She didn’t do anything as she watched Jon’s loyal supporters bring the shackled hounds down to the dungeon where the man had been held in for the past several hours. Those hounds, blood hounds, guard dogs, struggling weakly against their binds, starving due to their master’s insistence that he only fed them.

It was a power move, Sansa understood, which ironically had become a grim mistake on Ramsey’s part. The animals wouldn’t give a damn who their master after not being fed for days.

She didn’t do anything when, curious, she descended down the stone steps and stared ahead, just to see her darling, loving husband, chained, breathing heavily, sitting his own blood. He had been shot in both legs, painful but not fatal injuries. When approached by the would-be executioners, she only stepped aside. She should have left at the moment, but couldn’t muster enough desire ascend the stairs. So, she stayed there, facing her husband as the men inched closer to Ramsey’s cage and opened the door, disregarding Ramsey’s passionate protests.

She hadn’t done a damn thing when the dogs were finally released, eager to replenish their stomachs.

Hours later, she declined the men’s offer to shoot the dogs as well. The hounds hadn’t done anything wrong; they didn’t deserve such a harsh fate. So, she would just take care of the dogs herself.

The building could be burnt to the ground without them.

* * *

“You’re taking your husband’s death pretty well. Considering the funeral was just last week.”

Sansa gave Sandor a look. “Do you expect me to behave different?”

"Nah." Sandor said, smirking. "You're crueler than you let on."

If it had come from anyone else, Sansa would have considered the statement to be a criticism. But this was Sandor; in his eyes, cruel was admirable. Cruel meant that one wasn’t weak.

Anyway, it was just a joke.

Sansa quickly caught onto it and shared a smile with him. She would forever be amazed by Sandor’s shift in personality when he was around her. It was puzzling, yet endearing. The Hound was a giant, larger than any other man in Winterfell. He was rough along the edges, crude in his vernacular and generally held no sense of compassion for anyone outside of his mother. One of the best executioners to walk the streets of the Northeast, abiding by her wishes, expecting nothing else from her. She didn't know how that felt—people, men, being friendly without an obvious ulterior motive.

"I wouldn't define myself as cruel," she argued, leaning down to pet her precious hounds. It was incredible watching these creatures, such beautiful dogs. Peaceful dogs, until they were pushed to the corner and refused the basic life necessities; they were turned into beasts. "I simply refuse to feel sorry for myself."

Sansa let out a sigh as one of the hounds leaned into her tough. She held out her other hand full of treats, and her smile transformed into a full-brown grin as of the hounds are out of her hand. “I may be slow to learn, but I learn.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “We should leave.”

Sandor nodded, stepping aside so Sansa could walk ahead of him, up the basement stairs to the floor of her Long Island home.

“Can I ask you a question?” Sansa asked as she reached the top of the stairs. She quickly removed her apron, folded it and placement it beside the basement door. Her maids would soon pick it up.

“Go ahead.”

“I know this may sound…” Sansa trailed off, walking towards the guest bathroom, adjacent to the living. The man followed close behind. "Why have you always been so pleasant in my presence?"

Sandor raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliant?"

"Of course, not," Sansa insisted. "It's just. I see how you act around everyone else. Around my husband—I was simply wondering."

"Do you want me to be honest?"

Sansa quickly washed her hands in the sink, turned the water off and reached over to wipe her hands dry. “Brutally, if possible.”

“Because you ain't a cunt."

Sansa had always found Sandor's blunt words humorous. It was brash, socially deplorable. But he was honest, and Sansa appreciated that. There weren't many honest people in her life. She glanced to her right. Sandor just stood there, looking as serious as ever. She let out a small huff, and asked, "Have you met many of them, Sandor?"

"All the fucking time."

"And why do you call them that?" Sansa asked, stepping out the bathroom. She stopped in front of him and looked up; the man now looked amused. " _Cunts_?"

Sandor just laughed.

"Do I sound humorous to you?" Sansa asked.

"I've never thought I'd hear you say that word."

"Well, I guess I'm one for surprises," Sansa said, shrugging, and then, "You don't have to answer my question. I'm glad you do not think I am a…"

"A cunt."

"Right," Sansa said, and then, "And how do you feel about my late husband?"

"Then or now?"

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Your opinion has changed?"

"No, I still think he was an asshole."

Sansa nodded with small smile. The man was blunt as ever. Thankfully, none of Ramsay's other associates were around. They were all busy snooping around Long Island and New York City for any conspirators of their boss' murders. Sansa wasn't too worried about anyone finding out the truth.

"So, did I," she said. "So, do I."

* * *

Sansa dropped a sugar cube into her hot black tea before stirring the drink. She was having a light breakfast out on the balcony of her Rye seaside manor. It was a lovely morning, with a light, gentle, cool breeze and with blue skies peppered with a few clouds. A herd of seagulls could be heard flying over the Sound, occasionally picking at the sparkling water— she wished every day could be like this.

She wasn't alone. Petyr sat across from her while Sandor stood in the back. The adviser was supposed to be staying up in Poughkeepsie to discuss business with Mormont's, one of the Starks' most trusted, oldest and  _legitimate_  allies. But he had insisted to meet up with the eldest Stark daughter in the morning. Sansa hadn't minded.

"Any news from the justice department, Mr. Baelish?" Sansa asked, and then added. "Good news, I hope?"

"The police have officially ruled Ramsey's death as a tragic accident," Petyr announced, handing Sansa a copy of the police report and continued, "Killed by a pack of stray dogs. He was unable to fight back to due to injuries sustained during a nasty fall down the stairs. There was no mention of the chains."

"And the District Attorney?"

"He has other things to worry about," Petyr replied. "I had a discussion with him. Plus, the building's been now demolished..."

Sansa was grateful. She couldn't have a murder investigation hanging over her head. "So, we don't to worry about it?"

Petyr leaned forward and took her hand into his, running his thumb smoothly over her knuckles, he looked at her from under his lashes. He patented, confident smirk was present.

That man always had a hold on her.

Whether she wanted to deny it or not.

"We don't have to think about your late husband in such a manner ever again, Sansa."

"Thank you," she breathed, not knowing what to do with her right hand. She thought about pulling it away, but it did feel wonderful under Petyr's touch. "I don't what I would have done without your assistance."

"The pleasure is always mine, Miss Stark."

Sansa smiled, using her other hand to bring her tea cup to her lips. She took a long sip and her smile grew.  _Miss_   _Stark_. Petyr was beginning to call her such in private, and she was beginning to get used to that name. Her old name. A name she ought to return to because of the farther she was from anything Bolton-related, the happier she would be.

* * *

Sansa didn’t expect to see Arya so soon.

Technically, the younger Stark daughter was late. Ramsey’s funeral had been a couple of weeks back, not that Sansa truly believed Arya would show up. Not because she didn’t want to, which in truth, she didn’t, but because she had work to do. She had spent the past year in Vietnam, which was currently engaged in an armed conflict, to pursue her career.

It was for photography, she claimed. People hired people who took chances so why not create photo essay while working side by side with a non-profit organization? Sansa couldn’t believe Arya would so something like this.

But then again, this was Arya.

“I’d give my condolences, but I don’t think they’d be welcomed.”

“ _Arya_ ,” Sansa breathed, grinning as she pulled her sister into a hug. Arya protested but without any heat. Sansa didn’t think she’d let her sister go anytime soon. “Your presence is enough.”

“I figured that much,” Arya mumbled into her sister’s chest. She pushed back the moment Sansa’s hold loosened. “Damn, were you trying to break my bones—Oh, and I’m sorry about not coming around earlier. You know, there’s a war going on over there.”

“You shouldn’t be out there.”

“ _Thank you, mom_. By way, I’m not doing anything special, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Arya said, following her sister further into the house. “Just taking pictures. Trying to get hired by the Times.”

"From a distance," Arya insisted, and then, "Honestly, Sansa, I have a better chance getting killed hanging around the Lannister's than in Vietnam."

“Let’s not talk about the Lannister’s,” Sansa suggested. The name of that wretched family brought a bad taste into her mouth. “Have you eaten?”

“At the airport,” Arya said, ready to make another comment about her sister being a mother hen until she looked to her side and grinned widely. “ _Oh_ , look who finally decided to show his face!” she announced as Sandor entered the hallway. He had just returned from finishing some business. He was surprised to see her and even more when Arya marched up to him and punched him on the thigh. It was a light-heartened move, and a humorous one, given her height.

“And how the hell are you, big guy?”

“I should be asking _you_ that,” Sandor grumbled, but he wasn’t annoyed. He might never admit it, but he did have a soft spot for Arya. _She’s a badass chick_ , he had confessed to Sansa once, over a couple of drinks.

"I'm fine," Arya said proudly. "It's hard to kill me. I swear I'm so agile that I can dodge bullets!"

" _Bullshit_."

“And why is _that_ bullshit?”

Sansa rolled her eyes playfully, shaking her head as she led the pack to her sister’s guest bedroom with Arya and Sandor bickering behind her. She would forever find it amusing, the two of them, two of the fiercest people she knew, arguing like children.

Arya would eventually break out of the bickering to make a comment about her sister’s martial home. She never did like the place; always compared it to the Long Island version of Versailles. It didn’t fit,” she always told her sister. Just something about it unnerved her—Sansa had always agreed with Arya, but she never voiced them. She figured if she ignored it, then everything would fall into line.

“This place hasn’t changed,” Arya remarked, unimpressed.

“Just like your height,” Sandor taunted.

He laughed when Arya gave him the finger.

Sansa slowed down her pace to pay more attention to the decorated hallway. “Ramsey didn’t like change.”

“Ramsey is dead,” Arya reminded her sister.

“I know that, Arya.”

Sandor was silent. He usually was when the conversation centered around Ramsey’s death. Sansa supposed it was a defense mechanism, of some sort; the man did not want to self-incriminate himself in front of the others.

Though Arya wouldn’t judge him.

“Then you should change some things around. Liven up the place.”

“I have no intentions on staying here for much longer.”

“And why is that?”

The question was a surprise because the answer was obvious. Everyone who had paid attention had known for years how much Sansa did not like Long Island— She hated the cities and towns. The businesses. The people. For the most part. The smell. The atmosphere. The faint sight of the New York Skyline. The Long Island Railroad.

She hated it all.

* * *

“I have no life here," Sansa would later confess to Arya over dinner. It was simple because Arya insisted on it. "I have no friends here. The only reason why I get invited to dinner parties or brunches is because of Ramsey. People were too scared to say no to us."

Arya took a large piece of her burger and washed it down with some cola. "So, you want to go back to up there to Poughkeepise, where the North is?"

"At least, I would get some respect from there."

"Respect isn't given—"

"It's earned," Sansa finished, rolling her eyes as she played with her mash potatoes "I know, thank you."

"I'm just saying," Arya said, concerned. "If you go back up there. People are gonna to bow down to you and shit not because of  _you_ , but because who our father was. If you want respect, you gotta snatch it up. Show people you ain't playing."

"What are you implying?" Sansa asked, narrowing her eyes.

Arya raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"What do you suppose I do?"

"Make a name for yourself."

* * *

 

Sansa didn't want to think about her sister's words.

No matter how right she might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Poughkeepsie is a city located in Duchess County, about 65 miles north of New York City. 
> 
> 2\. Woodlawn Cemetery is a famous cemetery located in the Bronx (one of the boroughs that make up New York City).


	3. Three

On paper, from 1965 to his untimely death, Ramsey Bolton owned a construction company and played a major role in the worker's union. Off the books, Ramsey was the leader of Winterfell, one of the five groups that would later be known as the "Northern Outfit". The Northern Outfit, formed right before the turn of the 20th century, was one of the seven "kingdoms" that comprised of the Iron "Commission", a country-wide crime syndicate.

Brutal business tactics aside, Ramsey had been relatively competent in both roles. The man always devised ways to make money (and lots of it) whether it was from over-charging construction projects, skimming union pension funds, extortion to good ol' fashion drug dealing. It was the money that made his men loyal to him. Most of them, at least.

Ramsey’s dissenters were loyalists of the old regime but found themselves having no choice but to ally with the Bolton’s. Winterfell had been ruled by Ned Stark, and then it was transferred into the hands of his eldest son, Robb Stark. Following the latter's murder, the role was in a limbo until Ramsey ended up with the title as the "Lord" of Winterfell through his marriage with Sansa—

And now, he was gone.

* * *

“You know, it’s yours. Winterfell,” Jeyne whispered to her friend during the official reading of Ramsey’s will. Despite Ramsey being Ramsey, it was comfortable that he stuck to the usual conventions. His wife got the money and the next living male, if there was one, got the business. “You’re the next eldest Stark.”

“There’s Jon.”

“Your father never gave him his name.”

* * *

Jeyne was absolutely right. Technically speaking, Jon was a bastard; Jon’s last name was Snow, not Stark—Sansa had always wondered about her father’s decision.

Ned had practically raised Jon from the very beginning, despite his wife’s misgiving. Everyone knew that Jon was Ned’s son; Ned never denied it.

It would have been less of a hassle if Ned had just done the damn thing. Especially now since Stark Construction, Winterfell and its employees did not have a boss. None of the other Bolton’s could step much; most of them were dead. And Ramsey, being Ramsey and thus, believed he was immortal, had never bothered naming any of men as his successor.

There had been rumblings about Petyr taking over everything, but Sansa knew the man. He had accepted Jon’s offer to be the interim boss of Stark Construction, but he liked to lurk in the shadows. He was an intelligent, alluring man, but he wasn’t a leader of a gang. He wasn't the kind to stand up in front of a group of hardened men, and tell them to simply move on. He did have a crew back in the early '50's, some even remained, but it seemed that he had spent more time working with the Bolton's than his own business— not that Sansa was complaining. She didn't want to admit it, but she needed him more than ever.

She needed him to serve as her anchor until she figured out her next move.

* * *

"Is this something you really want to be involved in?"

Sansa bit her bottom lip and provided perhaps the most honest shrug of her life to Jeyne, her personal assistant who had just returned from family emergency a couple of days before. She was Sansa’s social secretary, confidant, occasional therapist and one of her dearest friends. One of the few people in this household that kept Sansa sane.

They had just returned from spending another day, entertaining guests who had stopped by to provide more condolences (and money owed). Sansa was downright exhausted; this wasn’t a conversation to have but she knew it was needed. 

_“You really want to do this?”_

It had never been her intention to.

But at this moment, no one offered to  _explicitly_  take the reins out of Ramsey’s cold hands, just unsure of what to do next. No one challenged Sansa’s inheritance. It was odd turn of events; even she would have to admit. Sansa had heard and witnessed many horror stories regarding associates, captains, lieutenants and whatnot, knocking off the other to get on top. But now, nothing—maybe because Ramsey had only been buried two weeks before.

* * *

_“Or maybe because they’ve finally accepted the fact that Winterfell never belonged to the Bolton’s in the first place,” Petyr had told Sansa earlier over a light brunch. “After all, Ramsey inherited your wealth through marriage. And now, it’s all yours.” He had sliced off a piece of an omelet before adding, “Unless, of course, Jon Snow wants to fight for it.”_

_He could._

_But Sansa doubted it._

_After all, Jon had bigger problems to handle. Winterfell, at this moment was placed on the backburner. “Until my return, the North is yours, Sansa,” he had told her the night before he surrendered himself to the NYPD, two days after Ramsey’s death._

_“As in Winterfell?”_

_“As in the Winterfell,” he confirmed, giving her a smile that promised that he had faith in her. “But don’t let anyone know that I’ve said this to you. You have to fight for it. Earn and command their respect.”_

* * *

“You really want to do this?”

“I don’t have any choice in the matter,” Sansa admitted, shimmying out of her yet another mourning dress. Ten more days, and the expected mourning period would be over.

“You can just walk away.”

“And do what, hide?” Sansa asked, shaking her head. “I’ve had a mark on me since I was born. Since I was given the Stark-name. I simply can’t walk away. You take out one person, and then you take out everyone. Including those who were not  _involved_. You, of all people, know how that goes.”

Jeyne didn’t deny. Instead, she offered, “I can make an arrangement.” She was connected to the families, but not as much as Sandor and Petyr. But she could make some moves; it wouldn’t be the first time.

“And have Petyr take all the spoils in my absence?” Sansa had to scoff. That was exactly what the man was waiting for. She wouldn’t forgive her; not many people would. “I wouldn’t do that to you all.”

“So, you’re keeping him on board.”

Sansa nodded, remembering all the times Petyr had provided her summaries of Ramsey’s “exclusive” meetings. The bits and pieces of advice he would whisper into her ear during parties and rides home. Ramsey had trusted him with his wife, and the man had taken advantage of it—He was playing a game. She knew it, but he didn’t have to know that she did. So far, it was working out in her favor.

“The best person to run Stark Construction at this point. Plus, there are many lessons I have learned from Mr. Baelish, Jeyne,” Sansa said, removing her diamond earrings and handing it to the other women who would place them into their rightful place. The widow stared at her reflection in the mirror; it was amazing how much her skin cleared since Ramsey’s death. “I am sure there are still many more to learn.”

It wasn’t an excuse that many would take lightly.

Petyr Baelish was a relatively hated man. Despite Sansa’s insistence that he had truly helped in her ways she couldn’t  _exactly_  explain, it did not do much to change many’s perception of him. Sandor didn't trust him. The  _actual_  Bolton family members wanted him out of sight. Sansa's own family had said the same (though Jon was being understandable quiet about it; timing was everything with him).

Arya, though not involved in any of the "Game," had been the most outspoken about it.

* * *

_"I don't understand why you have him around," Arya said to her older sister back in 1965. One week before her wedding to Ramsey. They were both standing inside of Sansa's room, getting ready for the older sister's final dress fitting. "He's a fucking snake."_

_"Language," Sansa chastised. She didn't understand what went wrong with Arya's upbringing. The girl's mouth was dirtier than some of their father's soldiers'. And her demeanor? Despite what their mother, Catelyn, desired, Arya would never attend a debutante ball._

_"I'm serious, Sansa."_

_"He's a wise man."_

_"He'll fuck you over," Arya argued, crossing her arms, resembling a little child, moments away from throwing a tantrum. "You'll see."_

_Sansa gave her sister a disapproving look. "Don't you mean my future husband?"_

_"Who was sent to you by Petyr," Arya retorted. "Don't you remember?"_

_Oh, Sansa remembered, and she hadn't been happy about it. She would never be, but she had told herself that it would be for the best. Because it wasn't like she was going to marry some guy off the street. The Bolton's had money. If she played her cards right, she could have influence over the Bolton's. For the Stark's sake._

_"This conversation is ever."_

_"Of course, it is.”_

* * *

Sansa needed Petyr to believe he was the one calling the shots. All of the shots.

"What you are going to do is take your late husband's place," Petyr would tell her one night as they both shared a dinner inside Sansa's marital home, surrounded by no one but the guards standing outside of the dining room. Sansa had sent Sandor home some time ago.

"You want me to become Boss?" Sansa asked, breathless, holding a hand to her chest. "If the men won't get behind you, what makes you think they would get behind me?"

"Because the Hound would never leave your side."

"No offense, Mr. Baelish, you are not fond of one another,” Sansa remarked, reaching for her wine. "How would you know?"

"I am very observant person, Sansa," Petyr said. "Also, if you haven't noticed, we are still in a middle of a conflict."

Sansa took a tip of her wine, resisting an urge to roll her eyes. Yes, the war. The one her husband had unwisely started because of his rage about what happened to his precious Myranda.

She had to snort— _Myranda_. Why did everyone seem to lose their collective minds when it came to her? She hadn't been anything special, dead or alive. She lacked the grace and the background to walk in Sansa's shoes. She had been a failed actress-turned-mistress. She would have never been accepted in the inner circle, full of wives of politicians, business and gangsters possessing enough clout to  _appear_ legitimate.

"I have no qualms with the Greyjoy's," Sansa told her adviser. "I don't have any qualms against anyone besides the Lannister's."

"Your men think otherwise."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. " _My_   _men_?"

"As far as everyone else is concerned, the Greyjoy's contributed your husband's death. They are out for blood."

Sansa remained doubtful. People in the Bolton enterprise didn't admire Ramsey; most were scared of their mind in his presence. She was pretty sure many of them had spent the past couple of weeks reveling about his death. "They just want an excuse to get the Greyjoy's."

Petyr shrugged. He didn't deny it. "Despite the purpose, we can't back down now. Although it pains me to admit it, Ramsay's death was a blow to this family. Everyone knows it, and everyone it looks to get a piece. Especially the Lannister's."

"Then we go after the Lannister's?"

"I thought you said you didn't want a war."

"With the Greyjoy's," Sansa clarified, watching the man across from her table intently. "I prefer not to be in a war at all."

"So, you want a truce?"

"Do we any other choice?" Sansa asked, reaching for her wine again. She didn't like this conversation. She was speaking as if she was leading the Bolton's. She didn't want to have anything to do with it—but, she realized grimacing—she didn't have much choice.

"You've seen the light, Sansa."

Sansa looked up and cleared her throat. "What makes you think I can do this?"

"Because I know deep inside you know you can," Petyr replied, smirking. "Because I know you've been observing all of the business matters, albeit subtly, during the past several years. You are not as oblivious as some make you out to be."

Sansa hid her smirk.

* * *

Petyr had told Sansa once that she reminded him so much of her mother, Catelyn.

As time passed by, Sansa was no longer surprised when people commented about the mother-daughter resemblance. It was completely understandable, Sansa learned. After all, Sansa was the eldest daughter of the family.

From a very young age, she had fully accepted and embraced her role as a wife to man of power, whether gain legitimately or not—she would never use "honestly" because she would soon learn that the line that separately the rich on the "right" side of the law" from the "wrong" side was very thin—She would produce children, rule her household while her husband became the head of the family. Hopefully grow old to see her children get married and have a family of their own.

Sansa learned everything about being a woman from her mother, especially the most important one: never bury your head in sand. Be attentive even while you were in the shadows. Learn everything about your husband and his affairs, both personal and business-related.

* * *

_“I don’t want to be involved though,” Sansa complained to her mother after Catelyn had given her another lecture. She always admired her mother, such a smart woman who commanded respect the moment she walked into a room—whether full of suburban mothers or hardened gangsters._

_"Your intention does not matter,” Catelyn said she finished applying the cosmetics on her daughter’s face. Sansa was preparing for her prom. “Take the knowledge you gain and use it to your advantage. Trust me, darling, I do not believe there is anything more glorious than the look on someone's face upon discovering that they have been outsmarted," She winked. "By a lady."_

_"But why the facade?"_

_"Sometimes, my dear, it makes life easier to let some believe that they are the ones calling the shots,” Catelyn had said. "It does wonders to their ego and it does not put you on the front lines."_

* * *

It seemed that everything had gone downhill the moment Catelyn, nee Tully, Stark emerged from the shadows and started "calling the shots" on her own.

That wasn't a fair assessment, Sansa realized as she walked out of the back door of her estate, leading to the wonderful gardens. Her mother had done all she could, given the circumstances. The Lannister's had done her wrong. The Arryn's had done them wrong. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannister's— it had been a natural reaction. Family protected family always.

And then Ned Stark had died; what was Catelyn supposed to do? Let Robb do all the work? Robb had been a darling, the best older brother Sansa could ask for, but he had been naive in his own way. Not realistic, was more like it. He had trusted people's words far too often... and for what? Only to get slaughtered at his own wedding by the man whose daughter had been arranged to be a Stark?

"Nobody likes an arranged marriage," Jeyne said, following her friend through the tulip garden. "Especially one they weren't exactly privy to."

"I knew about it, and apparently I'm the stupid one."

"You are many things, Sansa," Jeyne said, bringing a hand to her chest, deeply frowning, offended that her friend could even think of herself in such in manner. "But stupid is not one of them."

"Jeyne—"

"We all make mistakes," Jeyne said. "That's what makes us human."

"I just think that whole affair could have been avoided if he just followed the plan..."

"That is life."

"We make decisions, good or bad, and we have to deal with the consequences. Robb made his decision."

"And now, he's dead,” Sansa said. "Along with half of my family."

"But the other half is still alive, kicking,” Jeyne reminded Sansa. "You want to go on with your life, right? Then you ought to start looking at the glass half full."

* * *

Sansa tried to have a “glass half-full” mindset for years and so far, it hadn’t done her any good.

She had done everything she could, she supposed. She had abided by her mother’s words, by her father’s promises, but they had all backfired. All Sansa had wanted to be was the perfect daughter, the perfect wife and the perfect mother.

" _Be careful what you wish for_ …" Myranda whispered into Sansa's ear a few weeks after the latter became the next Mrs. Bolton. They were all at a party hosted by the Bolton's and the Frey's. It was an uncomfortable experience, especially with the Frey's in presence, walking around, talking to her as if they hadn't allegedly orchestrated her mother's or her eldest brother's murders a few years back.

She would learn what Myranda had meant until the night she had received the news about her husband's death. The wretched woman was referring to Sansa's new role as the wife of a mobster. The role was difficult, not as glamorous as in Sansa's dream, and it didn't stop when she became a widow. It only began because despite her personal feelings towards Ramsey, Sansa had been protected under his wing. No fool would dare touch her.

No fool would have dared touched her if she had married any of the man she had been engaged to. Goodness, it seemed that Sansa's luck with husbands and fiancés were downright horrible: in efforts to repair relations, she had been first betrothed to the heir of the Lannister family, Joffrey, a man who had a wonderful job hiding his psychotic side in front of everyone outside his circle (and had been Ramsey's personality doppelganger).

And then everything had gone downhill from there  _again_. Because during her horrible engagement, the Lannister's and the Stark's decided to having a falling out over territory ( _of course_ ) and Lyanna Stark (for reasons Sansa still didn't know). Which led to a war and the surprising execution of one Ned Stark.

After that, she was engaged to another Lannister, Tyrion. She actually liked the man. He was a bit older for her tastes, but he had treated her well to the point that Sansa would have sucked it up to make the marriage work. During this time, she would see one of her dear friends, Margaery Tyrell, one of the sweetest and most beautiful women she had ever laid eyes on engaged to the psychotic Joffrey.

Margaery, who had some success in Hollywood, took the engagement far better than Sansa had expected. She had embraced her fate, but then again, she was Margaery. She always wanted to settle down. But—  _why_  she would choose Joffrey, of all people, would never be known.

He didn't deserve her.

He hadn't deserved anyone.

* * *

 

_"Aren't you afraid of him?" Sansa whispered as the pair walked around the ballroom, arms-linked, greeting anyone they passed. They were at Margaery's engagement party hosted in the ballroom of the esteemed Waldorf-Astoria in the middle of Manhattan._

_"Afraid of whom, Joffrey?" Margaery shook her head and scoffed. She looked so lovely under the lights, Sansa but mused. And be jealous that soon her friend would be Joffrey's—a man who had seemed like a prince from afar. The bride-to-be stopped into her tracks to grab a glass of champagne from a waiter passing by. "The only being I fear if the Lord, and the last time I checked, Joffrey ain't him."_

_"He's a Lannister."_

_"Aren't you engaged to one, too?" Margaery pointed out, bringing Sansa closer. "Damn, we're practically going to become sisters-in-law."_

_"But he's a monster…"_

_Sansa wasn’t referring to her actual fiancé, Tyrion, but to Margaery’s. Sansa had no issue with Tyrion; it just would have never worked out._

_Margaery gave Sansa a smirk and took a sip of her champagne. "Every man in this business is, Sansa. They all just show it differently."_

* * *

_Oh, Margaery..._

Of all people to suffer such a terrible fate, Margaery's demise hit Sansa more than she could ever imagine. She hadn't deserved that fate... burned alive because of the Lannister's couldn't bear having competition.

She wished she could have done more to help her friend. But she had never asked her husband to use his influence; he would have probably killed Margaery himself for fits and giggles.

"Miss Stark?"

Sansa immediately opened her eyes. She looked beyond Petyr with his inquisitive expression and locked eyes with Sandor, who was standing right next to the door with his folded in front of him. She could tell that he was seething, more or less because he was in the presence of Petyr. They had never liked each other, but tolerated each other for the sake of the business. For Sansa’s sake.

"Yes, sorry. As you were saying?"

"Did you hear about Kennedy?"

Sansa placed a cigarette between her lips, flipped open her platinum coated lighter and lit up the tobacco. She took one drag and sighed. Of course, she had heard. Everyone in the damn country not living a rock heard about the assassination. One of many assassinations during this decade; it was like a damn battlefield. Wars starting up at Vietnam, spilling into Laos, wars over in this country. Wars in Sansa's inner circle. She was beginning to get used to hearing news of some assassination or its attempts every other day.

"Yes, I did."

She folded her hands on the mahogany desk custom-made for her late husband. She was sitting inside his prized office, the one she had been banned from for years.

And now, it was years. All of it was hers—from the house to the business (until, at least, someone challenged her). It was a thrilling yet sobering realization to have; her, a housewife who frequented brunches and social events with other ladies in her social class, now had the business in her hands.

Until, at least, someone decided to step up to the plate and demand her to hand over the keys. To step aside... a part of her thought she would just accept her fate. But a part of her believed that she deserved this.  _All of this_.

Especially since she wouldn't get much of a pushback from the Bolton's. Due to their notoriously violent nature, they weren't much of them "left." Most of the men had died violently and everyone else just stood clear, grumbling from a distance.

"I did."

She sat up in her husband's seat, took a long drag from her cigarette and glanced up at the man sitting in front of her, with that infuriating yet intoxicating smirk on his face, the one that made most people either wanted to punch his face in or kiss him. Petyr had that aura about him.

"Unfortunate, isn't it?"

She gave Petyr a look. He seemed pleased about the news. Too pleased. "It is. He had just won the Democratic nomination for president. Killed by a child."

"Apparently, there are rumors that the mob did it."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. Oh, yes. Just like John F. Kennedy. The official story was a lone wolf had done the killing, but there had been rumblings that something else had gone on. She figured no one would truly know the whole story, much to the chagrin or excitement of conspiracy theorists everywhere. "He wasn't his brother."

"Well, he did try to do anything in his power to bring down Giancana," Petyr reminded Sansa. "Maybe his people are still upset about that."

"Do you think we had anything do with that?"

"No."

"Good."

That was the  _last_  thing she needed.

"I suppose," Petyr glanced behind him, seemingly at Sandor. But the man’s gaze remained straight ahead. "I can't say I miss him."

"Which one?"

"The first one," Petyr said, crossing his arms. He was becoming frustrated; Sansa could tell by the way his eyes narrowed and the flaring of his nose. "All he did was lie and lie. Was the reason why we had lost our stronghold on Cuba. All of my casino's closed because of a communist revolution."

"Perhaps if you had appeased Castro like Trafficante tried to do, your fortunes would look different."

Petyr's grimace dropped, replaced by a full-fledge smirk. "Ah, so you have been playing attention. Wonderful. Well, Trafficante he tried that route. And he still lost."

"He still runs Tampa."

"But no longer Cuba," Petyr reminded Sansa. "I'd rather run a country than a city."

"But wouldn't be that be... I don't know, more complicated?"

"Complicated gives you notoriety, Sansa."

Sansa nodded. Not necessarily because she agreed with Petyr's words. He had a tendency to "go big." She didn't know how she should feel about the man. He had a reputation. A frightening smart, handsome older man who used to work for her father.

Back in March, two months before Ramsey’s death, Petyr was promoted Ramsey's main negotiator, involved in various dealings, from contraband imports to his marriage. He was a master manipulator, but then again, wasn't everyone else? Everyone in the business looked after themselves, and for the most part, even family.

Petyr's moral compass wasn't consistent, but then again, wasn't everyone else's? His morals didn't make him different. It didn't make him stick out.

But she was drawn to him because he actually talked to her about the game. Explained everything from mob politics, to actual politics to the price of every racket to who was going to be made a "made man" to who was going to get "whacked."

Sansa scrunched up her nose at the word. She didn't know why people couldn't just say "assassinate."

_"It gotta sound badass. Not formal or shit,"_ Sandor had explained to her some years back _. "So, that's why we use 'whacked' instead of 'assassinate.' It takes some heat off of us.”_

Sansa shook her head at the memory. Besides being Ramsey's hitman and the occasional bodyguard, Sandor often served as Sansa's urban, up-to-date dictionary regarding the hottest new lingo. Though the term, "whacked", had existed for years— she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her father, though a mobster himself, wanted to create an aura— his family, the Starks weren't going to be like them. They were going to roam the streets with their heads up high, go to the best schools, and navigate the right social circles. High-class in every way.

But in the end, no matter how much Ned Stark wanted to believe otherwise, he had still been a mobster.

Each dollar he had earned. Every cent he had dedicated to his wife and children's decadent life style had been obtained through the rackets- extortion, laundering, the drug market... Heroin had been his thing.

She shut her eyes—she didn't want to think about her father. His dealings, his execution. She had been so young when he had been taken from her life back in '57. She still wasn't over it.

"The whole situation is just unfortunate," Sansa reiterated, and then changed the subject because she hadn't called Petyr in to discuss yet another Kennedy assassination. "We were talking about the potential decrease of finances during this quarter?"

"Ah, yes," Petyr said. "Like I've mentioned before, Sansa. Times are changing. The traditional ways of doing business aren't working any more. Sure, you can get involved in the casino business, but they are far too many hands in it."

"I have no intentions on moving out West."

"I figured as such."

"Then what do you suggest we do, Mr. Baelish?" Sansa asked, looking beyond her advisor once more to focus on Sandor. He had tensed up. Interesting.

"Well, Miss Stark, I don't see why we shouldn’t continue our involvement in the drug trade. At least, more than we've traditionally had." Petyr leaned in closer. "I hear that the heroin business is gaining even more steam. More than the marijuana business ever had."

"I'm not a fan of heroin," Sansa told the man. But as much as Sansa hated it, she had to continuing accepting the shipments of heroin to satisfy the client base, to satisfy the stipend that she still owed to the dreadful Lannister’s. The arrangement had been created by Ramsey a week before his untimely death. They had over two dozen clients to distribute the narcotic too—Sansa had no choice but to let it happen.

Her men needed the money.

“But we do need to increase the supply,” Petyr said.

Sansa leaned back in her seat. “I think we ought to look for other avenues,” she suggested. “Heroin is fine, but what if that busts? We will be done for, and the Lannister’s would eat us up.”

“Are you suggesting that we diversify?” Petyr asked.

“How about cocaine?” Sandor suggested from across the room. He seemed bored out of his mind—he usually was with Petyr around; his suggestion probably was the result of an urge to leave the stuffy area.

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Cocaine?”

“You can make a shit ton of money,” Sandor continued, disregarding Petyr’s distrustful looks. “Do heroin and do cocaine… you’ll be fine.”

"The cocaine trade, a risk is it not?"

Sansa didn’t deny it. "I risk that I may need to take, Dr. Qyburn. So, tell me about it."

"It's made out of a coca plant native to South America. Specifically, in Peru," Qyburn, the Bolton family doctor and pharmaceutical extraordinaire replied, "Once refined, it looks like fine, white powder. So fine that if you blow it on it, it'll wither away. I guess that's why they call it: Blow."

"And the Colombians?"

"They're much more interest in the marijuana trade. Not cocaine," Qyburn replied, sitting down in his medical office chair. "I mean, I'm sure they're some people involved in it, but it's not as wide scale."

“We can make people become more interested,” Sansa offered.

“It’s not as easy as it sounds, Mrs. Bolton.”

“Nothing in life is.”

"This is a risk," Sansa informed Petyr hours after leaving Dr. Qyburn's office; she knew that Petyr's intentions were always gone when it came to making money. They were walking along the shores of the Long Island Sound, barefoot with their shoes in their hands, with Sandor lingering several feet behind them. The sun was slowly but surely dipping into the horizon; it was truly a beautiful sight, one of Sansa's favorite sights. The only reason why she wouldn't want to leave Long Island. "The clientele for cocaine is not as wide spread as heroin or marijuana."

"It is important that you see the forest from the trees," Petyr said. "Yes, the drug is not as popular as the rest, but if you look at the trends, you'll see that cocaine use has grown significantly in the past few years. I can only see that trend increasing, perhaps even exponentially into the next decade."

"My people won't wait that long."

"Patience is a virtue, my dear,” Petyr said. “Think about it, will you?”

“I shall.”

* * *

 

In mid-June, roughly a month since Ramsey’s death, Sansa decide to make her first major purchase as a single woman—the land where she husband had died. It hadn’t been for any paranoid reasons, like Sandor had mentioned, she just didn't like the fact that it was just an empty plot of land.  _Dirt_. It ruined the pleasant aesthetic of the small, suburban community.

"What are you going to do with it, Boss?”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Boss?"

"Ain't that what you are?" Sandor asked. "Ramsey's dead. There ain't an heir running around so you the boss."

Yes, an heir. Perhaps Sansa was in this predicament because of her and her husband's selfishness. With her terminating her pregnancies and with him, allegedly killing his little brother, along with his step mother and his father.

Though, if Sansa was to be honest with herself, it was also the fault of Ramsey's birth mother, Mrs. Bolton, a divorcee who refused to change her married name when Roose Bolton had tossed her aside.

"I'm more like an interim manager," Sansa modestly replied. She never did like the title:  _Boss_. It had such an ugly connotation to it. She wasn't a mobster. "I'd like to grow a community garden. That's the least I can do."

"Your wish is our command, Boss."

Sansa glanced at the man and stiffly nodded. She didn't want to think she liked the sound of those words coming out of such an infamous man's mouth. She wasn't power hungry; she didn't want to lead a gang of men, but those words, whether she'd accept it or not, sent a thrill all over her body. "I'd like it to be done by September," she said. "So, the community can grow some fall vegetables. Maybe even give some to the unfortunate. I sure those in the city would love them. Charity work would do us some good."

"Charity work?" Sandor snorted. "Boss, we ain't the Salvation Army."

“ _Sandor_ , if I'm going to be involved in this business, I need a peace of mind," Sansa told her bodyguard. "I need to prove to myself that I can give back. It makes life easier."

"Of course, Boss."

 


	4. Four

“I am not looking forward to this conversation.”

"I know this is inconvenient for you, uncomfortable even, ma'am, but unfortunately, we have to do what's necessary."

Sansa let out a defeated sigh as she followed Brienne Tarth through the aisles of a Bronx fish market, partially owned by the Stark's. Brienne was right; she often was. But it was Thursday morning; Sansa was supposed to meeting up with Septa for a date at the salon.

"I know... I just simply can't believe they'd do something like that," Sansa replied, stopping in at the large metal door at the back of the store, waiting for Brienne to open it.

When rank smell of fish hit her, Sansa scrunched up her nose, wishing her had brought a handkerchief along. Once the coast as cleared, she allowed Brienne to lead the way down the rickety stairs, down to the market's damp, dark basement.

“Watch your step, ma'am."

Sansa nodded, holding onto the railing with her dear life, cursing her decision to wear heels instead of loafers. She made a mental reminder to discuss the state of the staircase with the market owner. When she finally reached the last two steps, she allowed Brienne to help her down. She thanked the taller woman, grimacing once again at the sight of rotten fish to her immediate right. "I hate fish markets."

"You and me both," Brienne said, holding back a chuckle as she began walking again. "We shouldn't be here for very long."

Sansa was grateful.

"How many of them are there?"

"Just the two of them," Brienne replied, pausing to ensure that the guards caught sight of her, recognized her and the other woman she was accompanying. The man did and let them pass, making sure to bow his head as Sansa walked past him.

"Are they talking?" Sansa asked.

"I'm not sure, ma'am. But the Hound and Locke are there. I'm sure they'll make them talk."

Brienne stopped before another door and turned around, staring down at Sansa, concerned. "Are you sure you want to see this, ma'am?"

Sansa appreciated the concern, but she was no longer a child. She had been through hell and back; she could handle this. "What makes you think that I don't?”

"It may get messy.”

Sansa nodded. It would most likely get messy with both Sandor and Locke, expert enforcers, inside the room behind Brienne. She imagined they had weapons in their hands, interrogating the two assailants. "Ten years ago, I witnessed my father get beheaded," she reminded Brienne. "And look where I am, today. I'll be fine."

"Of course, ma'am," Brienne gave a stiff nod. "Of course, ma'am," and opened the door.

The action was concentrated to the middle of the medium-sized, humid room which was only illuminated by a single light bulb, hanging from the ceiling. There were two men, the ones in trouble, bound to the arms and legs of the chair, facing the other two men. Locke was on their right, wielding a knife with Sandor on the left, resting a barbed-wire coiled bat on his broad shoulder.

The interrogation stopped the moment Locke and Sandor noticed Sansa emerging from behind Brienne.

Sandor quickly glanced behind him and said, "I wasn't expecting you to be here, Boss."

"Well, I'm here."

Sansa took a few steps forward, removing her hat and handing it to Brienne. She stood right between the two interrogators, watching the assailants intently to see if they had grown wiser in the past couple of minutes. All she wanted was their side of the story. When the men wouldn't meet her eyes, she snapped her fingers and asked in a calm voice, "What happened?"

The men finally looked at Sansa, eyes full of barely-masked apprehension.

“Jecke and Martyn,” Sansa started off. “As you both are aware: back in the 1920’s, Winterfell made an arrangement with Lannister, and we haven’t one delivery since. And now, it seems that the money arranged to be delivered by Sunday, is now missing. Which means, as of right now, there is a chance that we may _miss_ the delivery.”

Jecke and Martyn remained tightlipped. Frustrated, Sansa let out a dramatic sigh and asked Sandor, “What did they tell you before I came?”

“They didn’t do shit.”

Locke snorted.

Sansa turned to Locke. “And you?”

“We got the wrong guys.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“No.”

Sansa nodded.

Just as she thought. She hadn’t known the two men before her well, but from what she could recall, they had been with the Bolton’s since 1960. Loyal men. Never stolen a dime.

“And now, they think they can because you ain’t Ramsey. Because you’re a lady,” Sandor had pointed out to Sansa earlier that morning. “Because they know you ain’t gonna fuck ‘em up.”

Did they?

Inflicting violence had never been Sansa’s thing, but she had learned that sometimes, one had to do something personally unpopular to get the point across. Especially when the targets refused to cooperate—all she wanted was the goddamn truth.

She _hated_ being lied to.

She had been lied to for practically all of her life.

“Just be honest,” Sansa advised softly. She was never learned for her sharp, profanity-laced language. She had learned from her mother that one didn’t need to use such language to get their point across. “The quicker we get to the bottom of this, the quick we can—”

"We answer to Ramsey Bolton," Jecke declared, head held up high. He was being brave. Bold. Disrespectful in Sansa's eyes. Martyn, now sweating bullets, silently gestured to his fried to wise up, but Jecke paid him no mind.

Sansa straightened up in her stance and reminded Jecke that, "He's dead."

"Then we answer to Jon Snow,” Jecke spat. He gave his partner a dirty look when he let out a distressed sigh.

Sansa raised an eyebrow. Interesting retort. From what she had known, Ramsey's loyal faction barely tolerated being in the presence of Jon Snow, and now they were recognizing his authority? Very interesting.

"He's not here, as you know," she said. "And now, you answer to me."

Sandor let out a dark chuckle. Locke smirked. And Martyn, seemingly the wisest of the duo, gave his partner a dirty look before shrugging, in vain, to get of his binds.

“Where is the money?” Sansa asked. For a brief moment, she imagined Petyr being by her side. No, standing in the corner of the room, with that ever-so-present smirk on his face.  _It's good for observing_ , he would always tell her. But he wasn't here; he was out in Arizona, striking up deals to increase the heroin production. He wouldn't be back for another week.

Martyn gulped as he watched Sandor paced around him. He tried to get his partner's attention, hoping to find a way to get out of this mess, but it was all in vain. “The money?”

Sandor let out another laugh.

“Yes, the money,” Sansa said. “Because from what I recall, we had one hundred thousand dollars in that case. Inside that room. Inside that vault. All Lannister's money, and now, one day later, it's gone."

Martyn blinked several times before insisting, quite vehemently that, "We don't know what—"

“You get paid to keep an eye on it,” Sansa said, cutting the man off with a bite in her voice. "And you obviously both did not. Now, I know things happened. Everything doesn’t always go according to plan. And I know there are two sides to the story—so, what's yours?"

Jecke seemed fully on board with standing his ground, staring up at the trio through heated eyes.

His partner, on the other hand, had quickly lost whatever resolve he had left. "Everything was there yesterday morning, I swear. No one touch anything, and we thought—"

"Don't you know how to keep your damn mouth shut?"

Martyn cut his partner a dirty look. "I told you this was a bad idea!"

"Why, you—"

 " _Enough_ ," Sansa snapped. "We didn't all the way here to listen you both squabble away like children. Just give me a straight answer—"

"Everything was gonna get paid back," Martyn spoke up again, frantic. "We had a plan. Just give us some time—"

" _You rat_!"

Sansa raised an eyebrow.

“Oh look, at Martyn singing along. And how about you, Jecke? You better give us what we want or else,” Sandor threatened.

"What if I don't? What're you going to do, tough guy? Bash my brains out with that fucking bat?" Jecke taunted, feeling oddly overconfident. “Well, why don't you and your little friend over here and this bitch right her, go ahead and fuck yourselves with it, you cock-sucking—"

Sansa should have seen it come. No one called the Hound that and got away with it. But she still jumped at the sight of Sandor swinging his prized bat across Jecke’s head, killing him instantly.

Locke cursed under his breath.

" _Fuckin'_   _Christ,"_ Martyn cried out as his partner’s lifeless boy slumped onto the ground. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of Jecke’s partially exposed skull.

Sansa grimaced at the sight but remained tight-lipped; she didn’t entirely approve of the change of events, but it seemed that Sandor had everything under control.

“You oughta leave God outta this,” Sandor told Martyn, pointing the bloodied bat at Jecke’s body. “He certainly couldn’t save your friend.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“And you,” Locke threatened, approaching Martyn, ready for his attack.

“Leave him be,” Sansa ordered.

Locke backed off, clearly disappointed that only Sandor had any action.

Sansa stepped closer to the trembling Martyn, forcing him to look at her. “Why did you do it?”

Martyn gulped, eyes not leaving Sansa’s. “We needed the money,” he admitted before bursting into tears. “We thought… we thought—“

“Jesus Christ,” Sandor grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“I just don’t understand, Martyn,” she said, disappointment evident in her voice. “You know if you needed the money, all you had to do was ask. I’m not my husband, you know. I would have heard your case.” She sighed at the sight of Martyn’s eyes widening, realizing just how fucked he was. “I know about your situation, the gambling debts and such, we could have made an arrangement. But you thought it would be better to steal from Winterfell."

“It wasn’t my idea!”

Sansa’s expression remained passive; she figured he would say that. “But you didn’t stop it,” she pointed out. “And because your actions, one hundred thousand dollars are missing. Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” Martyn mumbled, and then repeated more clearly, “I don’t know. He gave it to someone to stash it away, but he wouldn’t tell me—“

Sansa let out an exasperated sigh. Locke just crossed his arms, mumbling under his breath about coward. Brienne was clearing her through from far behind, and Sandor was tightening his hold around the handle of bat, ready to strike.

“Boss, let me at him.”

Martyn started to struggle against his binds. “No—“

Sansa shook her head. “No, keep this one alive.”

Sandor stared down at her.

“Boss.”

She stared at him back. "Keep this one alive."

Sandor backed off, letting out a disappointed sigh. Locke just shook his head and waited for orders from boss. Sansa took another step forward, only standing about a foot from her prisoner. 

“Bullshit,” Sandor bit out, running the tip of his bat, still wet with blood, up and down his arm, finding the man’s shudders amusing.

" _I don't know where it is_..." Marytn kept on chanting, eyes not leaving Jecke's body.

Sansa shook her head and sighed. It seemed like the wrong person, the one with all of the information, had been killed. "Okay," she finally said. "Honestly, it doesn't matter."

Sandor looked back at his boss, blinking. "It doesn't?"

"No," she maintained before turning to Locke and requesting that he untied Martyn. Locke seemed to be just as confused as his partner, but he did what he was told. "

"What's going on?" Martyn questioned as his restraints loosened around his limbs.

Sansa had found a way to get the money back without any more violence.

"I know this isn't the way of the Bolton's," she began. "Usually, you would be dead right along with your friend. But then I realize, the two of you being dead isn’t going to bring back the money. So, how about a deal?"

"A deal?" Martyn asked in a shaking voice, looking between the trio and Brienne. ”You’re gonna let me go?”

“Yes,” Sansa confirmed. “But we have to make a deal.”

“Fine!” Martyn nodded enthusiastically. "Anything. I'll tell you everything you want. Just don't bash my head in,  _please_ ," he pleaded.

Sandor snorted.

“You have by the end of this to return the hundred grand,” Sansa explained. “As well as an extra ten for my men’s troubles. Not a cent less. Do I make myself clear?”

Martyn blinked. “I—“

"Do I make myself  _clear_?"

Martyn gulped. "Yes, ma'am."

“Good,” Sansa stood a few steps back and motioned for the man to rise from his seat. “Now, get out of my sight.”

* * *

"What happens if he doesn't come through?" Brienne asked as she led everyone up the stairs and out of the basement, leaving Jecke's body behind— it wouldn't be a problem; he would be in the Hudson River in no time. "Two days doesn't give him enough time."

"Look at you being all sympathetic," Sandor taunted. He laughed when Brienne gave him the finger.

"He should have thought about that before stealing the Lannister's stash," Locke said. "If we don't have that money, shit is going to go down."

"He'll have it by then," Sansa insisted before thanking the owner of the fish market for his "cooperation" by handing him a couple of hundred-dollar bills. "He has a wife and a horde of children. He'll have it by then."

"And what do we tell the Lannister's?" Brienne asked. Apparently, the woman was close with the Lannister's number two, Jaime. "You know they're gonna ask."

"Splendid," Locke mumbled under his breath before ordering the valet to bring him their car.

"Tell your  _boyfriend_ not to worry about a thing," Sandor taunted once again, winking. He, once again, just laughed when Brienne lifted up the edge of her shift, revealing a gun. "No, need to shoot me."

"Sandor, leave her alone," Sansa said. "And we are not going to tell them anything unless, by some rare chance, Martyn doesn't go through with his promise."

"I always appreciate your optimism, Boss," Sandor said before opening the passenger door to the black Cadillac.

“Thank you.”

* * *

“I see Brienne Tarth is back.”

Sansa gave Petyr a brief look before applying an extra coat of lipstick. There was a meeting that she was expected to attend in an hour, featuring some of the big-head’s that made up the North Organization, including the enigmatic Stannis Baratheon. Though not officially considered the “boss” of Winterfell, the board members respected her enough not to shun her presence.

“Is that an issue?”

"I have no issue with  _her_ , but I don't see why Brienne's needed."

“Petyr…” Sansa let out a deep breath, dropping her lipstick into her purse. “Honestly?”

“I’m only looking out for Winterfell’s finances.”

If she was anyone else, Sansa would have rolled her eyes at such a statement. Though she couldn’t say she was too surprised by Petyr’s plans. Brienne tended to bring out the insecurity of men. Some embraced it like Sandor and Jaime; some were repulsed by it. 

"She stays."

Petyr might not have been happy about the decision, but he did try to be coy and respectful. "How do you know she'll remain loyal?"

"She could have gone many times. I wouldn't blame her," Sansa said, walking out of her house when Petyr held the door open. "But she didn't. She didn't betray my mother, and I'm positive she won't betray me. And anyway, this loyalty you speak of... it's a rare thing to find in people."

“Miss Stark—“

Sansa stopped and faced her advisor. “Shall we? The traffic going into New York is going to be horrendous. It’s a nice Friday night, after all."

Petyr straightened up in his stance. "Lead the way, ma’am."

“Thank you, Mr. Baelish.”

* * *

The meeting had turned out just as Sansa expected: no one thought much of Winterfell. Though no one said it, even the Mormont’s or the Vale, but Winterfell was destined to fail. The Starks were gone—and Jon, who had been its linchpin, sort of, was in prison—and the Bolton’s were more or less obliterated. No one wanted to step up.

It was fine though. Sansa liked it this way. There were no haughty expectations; it gave her an opportunity to make a Stark-comeback.

Especially since Martyn had upheld his end of the bargain—one hundred and ten thousand had been delivered to her the day before. None of it counterfeit.

“So, we’re not gonna whack him after all?”

Sansa had to chuckle. The conversation, itself, wasn’t humorous; there was nothing funny about offing anyone, but the way Sandor sat there, crossing his arms,  _pouting_ , just made her laugh. “No, we’re not.”

“That’s a damn shame.”

“I’m sure you’ll have more opportunities in the future, Sandor.”

* * *

Sansa visited the prison on Riker’s Island in early July.

The visit would be short; she just wanted to see Jon’s face. Just so she could see with her own eyes that he was still in one piece.

It had been  _so_  long since she had seen him.

Much to her chagrin, she wouldn’t be able to do much besides speak to the man for no care packages were allowed. She wasn’t too surprised. This was Riker's, after all, and the correctional facility had strict rules about what to bring in: no paper or pen, no snacks, nothing elastic.

The visitation room was just as she expected; bare, full of people from all different backgrounds—mostly women and children, stuffy with only an industrial fan cooling down, albeit horribly, the area. There were inmates sitting at the long table with their loved ones on the other side, watched intently by the correctional officers.

It wasn't the best place to be, but then again, it was. Because before Sansa knew it, she saw Jon heading her way, in chains, of course, escorted by a guard. 

Jon stopped, shy of the chair, and stared at the woman in front of him; his grin grower more by the second. "You look terrific,” he said.

Sansa looked down and shrugged. She wasn't wearing anything special. Just a pink spring dress and some flats; she wanted to wear those new Chanel sling-backs she had just brought from Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue, but then she remembered just where she was.

She thanked him profusely and gestured for him to sit down.

"I wasn't expecting to see you," Jon said when the guard walked away, not looking back. The man didn't seem too concerned which piqued Sansa's interest. "But I'm glad you're here…” Jon trailed off as he followed Sansa’s eyes. She was cautious about being around so many strangers. "Don't worry about it,” he insisted. “We can talk. No one's going to say anything.”

"I appreciate your confidence in everyone's confidentiality," Sansa said, partially sarcastic, and then, "How are you?"

Jon's response was delayed due to the commotion happening at the far end of the room. An inmate was trying to share a kiss with a woman, presumably to be his significant other; doing so was against the rules.

Jon glanced at the drama, disinterested and rolled his shoulders. "Wish I can be back home," he honestly replied, "The accommodations suck. The food tastes like shit. But I suppose it could be worse." He stopped when he noticed Sansa's eyes roaming around the room, puzzled and worried. He narrowed his eyes, and asked, "What's wrong?"

Sansa's attention returned to Jon, but she still felt uneasy. This conversation was going on way too smoothly. "No one's bothering you," she pointed out, confused.

Jon didn't think anything of it, simply saying, "They know better."

Sansa gave him a small smile. He was trying to be light-hearted, in his usual way, but Sansa could see the underlining of that comment. He was dead serious. She looked to her side; no one was paying them any mind, including the guards. But they appeared to be making a concerted effort not to look her way. "So, you've made friends," she commented, impressed.

Jon shrugged, nonchalant. "I guess you can call them that." He scoffed and then, leaning over, hands folded, focus solely on the woman across the table, he asked, "How's business?"

Sansa didn't reply immediately. There was so much she wanted to say, but not in this environment. Even if Jon insisted that he had it in with the guards. "Still reeling from Ramsey's death."

She avoided Jon's eyes.

Jon didn't say anything, just leaned back in his seat and sighed. He had been arrested roughly a week after Ramsey had been killed, but  _not_ in connection to the man's death. "And yet Winterfell still stands?"

Sansa finally looked at Jon; he appeared hopeful. "Yes, but for how long?"

Jon huffed. "Sansa, pessimism will get you nowhere."

"It's an honest question," Sansa argued. Yes, Winterfell was still functioning; they were still generating money, but she had a sinking feeling that they could no longer just rely on heroin or the usual rackets. They had to look beyond.

"How’s the Hound?"

"Which one?"

Jon grinned. "Nicely played," and then, "The one who can talk."

"He's fine," Sansa said with a small smile. That man was something else. "He's just being him."

"Heard Brienne's back."

"She's staying," Sansa said, leaving absolutely no room for an argument.

Brienne Tarth was the "newest" addition to the organization. Originally, she had been assigned to Catelyn as a bodyguard, and when the Stark matriarch died, Brienne had traveled around the country doing odd jobs for the Stark allies. Sansa had wanted Brienne to come to the Bolton's upon the death of Catelyn, but Ramsey had refused. But now, Brienne was back, and Sansa had no intentions on letting her go.

  
"And Petyr," Sansa quickly added. "He's been helping me out tremendously. Always has."

"Littlefinger?" Jon snorted. "So, he's still around..."

"Regardless of your feelings about him, you can't deny that he's needed," Sansa said. “Did you put him temporary in charge of Stark Construction?”

Jon leaned back in his seat and studied Sansa. She knew she wasn't doing a good job hiding her expression; a commonplace when Jon's around. "I guess I did…" he whispered, and then, "Has he asked you to marry him yet?"

Sansa cleared her throat. It was obvious to anyone that the two men weren't too fond of each other. "Inappropriate."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Yes or no?"

"If you must know,  _no_." Sansa replied, rolling her eyes, cursing herself for even bringing up her advisor's name. She wanted to avoid this conversation so she shifted it to the one that made Jon squeamish. "Speaking of romantic entanglements, heard from Daenerys?"

Jon released a deep sigh. "You know, I had no choice."

"I know."

Sansa wasn’t going to judge him for his decisions. Goodness knows, she had made some questionable ones herself. All she could do was support him and remind herself that the man, although incarcerated until the end of the year, knew what he was doing. She gave Jon an assuring smile which seemed to lift his spirits.

"We need the manpower if we ever plan on taking on King's Landing, breaking from them..."

Sansa remembered Jon telling her those exact words a year ago. Daenerys, she didn't hate her; she just didn't trust her. Or the Dothraki family. Or her husband, Khal Drogo who might or might not know about his wife's affair—the whole situation was just a mess. "So, you're still sleeping with her."

"Can't really do that  _here_ ," Jon pointed out, looking around.

"Has she visited?"

"Why are you so concerned about her?" Jon wondered, eyeing Sansa. "And to answer your question, no."

"I'm concerned because I don't need her husband starting anything," Sansa said. "Like last time."

"That wasn't our problem," Jon reminded her. "It didn't involve us."

"Does it matter?" Sansa questioned, and then, decided to change topics once again. The last thing the both of them needed was a heated conversation about Dothraki and the Targaryen’s; Sansa was sure they would have much more to discuss when Jon's out of prison. Instead, she forced a smile and talked about the one other person who always brought a smile to Jon's face, "Arya stopped by."

As Sansa suspected, Jon's face instantly brightened. "Ah, how's she doing? Finally, back in the States?"

"She only stayed for a week," Sansa said. "She went back to Southeast Asia, and will be there until the end of the year." She shrugged. "I honestly don't know why she's there. There are plenty of other places she can photograph and plenty of other organizations she can work for."

Jon shrugged. "Well, thank goodness, she's a girl and won't see combat." He then chuckled. “Though I can see her running around with a M14, screaming out orders —she’s one tough cookie.”

“That’s what scares me.”

"And Bran?"

"Finding himself with his peace-loving friends."

Jon laughed, shaking his head with fondness. "Sounds about right."

Sansa laughed along with him. She didn't think she would ever understand her younger brother, but she was envious of him. She wished she could  _find_ herself on the other side of the country.

"I miss you all,” Jon said under his breath, staring at the distance. “You simply don’t understand  _how_   _much_  I miss you all…”

Sansa did, too. She vowed that one day, all of the living Starks would reunite. "How much longer do you belong to the state?"

“Five more months,” Jon said, seemingly not concerned about his current lack of freedom. Actually, he appeared more  _relaxed_ than he had in years. "It'll go by fast." He leaned back over, taking Sansa's hands into his, oblivious to the disapproving stares from the guards. "I have faith in you," he said softly, rubbing the top of Sansa's hands with his thumbs. "I know you'll do great things."

"Thank you, Jon."

Sansa didn’t tell Jon about the incident involving Jecke and Martyn and the missing one hundred thousand dollars. It wasn’t something to talk about inside a jail’s visitor room, no matter how many people Jon had under his “influence.”

* * *

"The Lannister's send their condolences," Jeyne said, handing the sympathy card to her friend. “A month and a half too late…”

Sansa didn’t expect anything less from them. She opened the card, skimmed through it and handed it right back. The Lannister's could burn right along the Bolton's, for all she cared. "I'm sure they're absolutely  _ecstatic_  by the change in events..."

"There are some rumblings that they had something to do with it," Brienne said, sharing a look with Jeyne. "Petyr is adding fuel to the fire. Apparently, he's preparing the Vale to, you know."

She really wished Petyr would focus on what was really important: their heroin connections and Stark Construction. Sales had dropped ten percent from last quarter which meant less money for Winterfell and less for the Lannister's (who would not appreciate that, at all—Sansa really didn't want to hear Tywin's mouth).

She shook her head. "The Lannister's had nothing to do with it."

Jeyne and Brienne shared another look, taken aback by the admission. 

"In the end, ma'am," Brienne started up again. "It doesn't matter who offed Ramsey. Enough people are blaming the Lannister's— not that I can blame them based on past history— sometimes you need a scapegoat."

Sansa shook her head and rose from her chair. "We're not attacking the Lannister's," she told Brienne, leaving no room for discussions. "We're not doing anything except for what we have been doing for years: giving them the money we have promised to them."

"But Petyr—"

"Petyr doesn't run things," Sansa reminded Brienne. "I do."

Brienne raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.

"Yes, but does he know that?" Jeyne asked.

The question wasn't so much of a challenge; rather it was a reminder that Petyr supposedly had Sansa wrapped around his finger. Sansa hated and loved the fact that Jeyne occasionally pointed that out; it forced her to stay on her carefully-devised path.

Sansa stood up tall. "He will soon enough." She then turned to Brienne. "Tell Jaime that there's nothing to worry about. Winterfell is not going to rebel against his family's rule anytime soon. After all, we have far more important things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Expanding Winterfell’s business.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Riker's Correctional Facility is a notorious jail located on Rikers Island in New York City. I believe they are planning on closing it down in the near future.


	5. Five

_“Why Mexico?”_

_“What not Mexico?”_

_Sansa rose both eyebrows as she reached for her wine. It was two months before Ramsey’s death, during one of those nights where both she and Ramsey were confined to the basement of the Bolton home. The area, considering, was pleasant enough, but would serve as a constant reminder that Sansa and Ramsey were not allowed to use the grand dining room without Ramsey’s attendance._

_It wasn’t ideal, but they both had gotten used to the arrangement._

_“Really?” Sansa asked._

_Her smile matched Theon’s._

_“Don’t you feel like a prisoner around here?”_

_Sansa’s light demeanor dropped, replaced by anxiety._

_Those were dangerous words to say._

_Prisoner._

_Perhaps she was._

_Of course, she was._

_It had taken her some time to accept that she was a prisoner in her own home. She wasn’t allowed to leave or roam around her beautiful home at night unless Ramsey accompanied her. Tonight, Ramsey wasn’t home, deciding to conduct his business out in Brooklyn with his cronies. And Myranda—_

_Years ago, Sansa would have been absolutely appalled at the thought of her husband’s mistress tagging along, but now, she craved for it. With Myranda distracting Ramsey, Sansa could drop her guard and rid of the façade that she had always been good at wearing._

_Perhaps, Theon as well._

_His relationship with the Bolton’s had always been controversial. Theon refused to speak much on it, but everyone knew that the younger man owed Ramsey a debt large enough for him to begrudgingly accept his position as Sansa’s “keeper”._

_If one could call it that._

_Theon’s relationship with Sansa was just as complicated as his relationship with Ramsey. But when it was just the two of them, like this night, they could safely assume they were friends—Though two months later, Sansa would question this. Because friends didn't point a double-barrel shotgun at friends before running off after committing murder._

_“Is that why you want to go south of the border?” She asked, knowing that she wasn’t answering Theon’s question. Based on the look on the man’s face, he didn’t expect her to._

_“It’s better that staying here,” he said with a shrug. “It got nice, hot weather. No snow. Good people. Beautiful ladies, and a shit ton of opportunities that I don’t got around here. I gotta make a name of myself. I gotta make a splash. Somehow.”_

_Sansa made a sound in her throat before finishing the last of her wine. She considered pouring another glass, but instead asked, “What kind of splash you want to make?”_

_Theon scoffed, playing with his pasta. Nothing you'd be interested in. That's for damn sure."_

_It was now Sansa's turn to scoff. "Your sister already has her hand in the marijuana business out in the Caribbean," she pointed out. "Is that what you want to do? Help her out?"_

_Based on the rumors, it seemed that Yara Greyjoy needed all the help she could get. The woman was tough, no doubt, and she had a loyal following, but she had suffered far enough blows from the Lannister's connections out in Belize and the numerous narcotics gangs in Cuba, Panama and southern Mexico. Ramsey had given her four years before she would collapse. Petyr, two. Sansa, only lurking from afar, under two. She had heard rumors that the Mexican government wasn't too pleased about a group of gringos, led by a “cross-dressing gringa,” running operations there with limited kickbacks._

_But Sansa wasn't going to mention that Theon. Theon had enough problems on his hands._

_“Nah, I wanna venture out,” he replied, quite confidently. “Make my own business, you know? I’m sick and tired of always relying on Yara.”_

_Such an ironic declaration, Sansa could later realize. For both siblings._

_“No to marijuana, then?”_

_“Grass is nice. Grass is always nice. But everyone's dealing grass. I'm looking into something better. Something that'll bring more money in than you can imagine. So much more than smack, too."_

_"Oh, really?" Sansa said, leaning in. "Like what?"_

_"Panama may have a lotta issues," Theon said, smirking as if he had solved the answer to all of this life problems. "But just as long as you got the bread, those officials will work with you. You can transport anything through there without any problem—So, I was thinking: hey, I can smuggle real shit from South American, like Colombia and Peru."_

_“Appliances?”_

_“Nah, cocaine.”_

* * *

"I wonder where he is right now…” Jeyne mused, sipping on her morning Sidecar as she lounged out in the sun. She was with Sansa in the middle of a mid-July morning, taking a break before preparing for a charity auction Sansa would be hosting at the Waldorf-Astoria in mid-town Manhattan. At seven pm, she would be auctioning some of Ramsey's "finest" art collections and Myranda's unnatural expensive jewelry collection. Anyone who wasn't anyone would be there.

Sansa took a sip of her own Sidecar before checking out the tanning status of her legs. "Mexico," she said, placing her drink to the side to fetch some sunblock. Hot July days were not kind to her skin.

"Mexico."

"I guess it's for the best. At least, for him," Jeyne said. "I must say, I'm still stunned that Ramsey didn’t hunt after him."

"He just didn't go far," Jeyne finished.

"Exactly."

"You think, he's coming back?"

"Who, Reek?"

"Yeah, him."

"His sister's having a hard time down there," Sansa said, remembering the "unofficial" briefing she had received from Stannis following the last North-board meeting. "He can't leave."

"You think she'll pull out?"

"Yeah, I don't think so, either,” Jeyne said. “She’s trying to tap into coke business. Trying hard, but it’s not working out for her. Plus, I overheard that her foreign government drama is affecting her marijuana sales—Ain’t that a shame? She should’ve stuck with that she was used to.”

Sansa nodded, wondering if the decision to switch to cocaine distribution was really Theon’s idea.

The cocaine business wasn’t a new racket. It certainly wasn’t a new business venture for the Iron Syndicate. Far from it. Sansa had known plenty of people who involved themselves in that business, some successfully, some not. Her father had even considered it years back, but then decided that marijuana, and heroin, ironically, were the safest, more reliable drug of choice.

Ramsey, never the one to be extremely innovated in areas not involving torture, hadn’t bothered. Though, he had been a consistent consumer of it.

But Reek,  _Theon_ —oh, he would forever have the most faith in the cocaine business. Even more than Petyr.

* * *

It was actually the other way around.

Which ended up not happening because certain enemies of the Bolton’s would soon catch kind of Ramsey’s emotionally compromised state and decided to exploit it.

It should have been that easy to Ramsey down to the basement of his hell-house, with a shotgun aimed at the back of his head.

But Ramsey’s bodyguards were nowhere to be seen. Sandor and Locke had been taken out temporarily, or so they claimed. The men from the Wall could have killed both guards, but didn’t.

They could have also killed Sansa, but they didn’t.

* * *

Petyr would return from his trip to Arizona and New Mexico during the third week in July.

"Was your trip successful?" Sansa asked, taking Petyr's suitcase and handing it to one of the butlers.

Petyr's expression remained passive, completely void of his usual smirk. "An eye-opening experience, more than anything."

Sansa frowned, leading Petyr away from the front door and into the living room. Along the way, she ordered a maid to fetch her a glass a wine and Petyr some Bourbon. "So, there was a setback."

"Just a minor one," Petyr insisted, sitting down on the couches with Sansa sitting across from him. "Our connections have expressed some concern about production. Apparently, there's a government crackdown happening in the Southwest, starting in Vegas."

"Vegas?" Sansa questioned before accepting her drink. "The feds won't have much success there. The mob has their money in  _everything_ , including the police's wallets."

"Yes, but for how long?"

Sansa raised an eyebrow. This was unlike Petyr, looking all defeated and resigned. He was always the man with the plan. "How bad is the situation?" she asked.

Petyr downed some of his liquor, cleared his throat, and said, "We will have to make some cuts. Nothing major but... we have some people whose cooperation is vital to us; we ought to keep them happy."

Sansa nodded grimly. That was one of the reasons why Ramsey shouldn't have invested more than half of Winterfell's income on heroin. "Will be able to make Lannister's September payment on time."

"Of course," Petyr said without a doubt. "I'll personally make sure every cent is delivered."

"Thank you," Sansa said, and then sighed. "I also have some news for you."

"Is it bad?"

Sansa shook her head. "No, it has more to do with reorganization than anything. I've been thinking: I'd like to categorize Winterfell's production. Make it more efficient by assigning someone to take care of a certain aspect of the family. I don't know if you've noticed, but Ramsey was more of a chaotic thinker..."

Petyr finished his drink and placed his glass on the table between himself and Sansa. "It seemed to work for him."

"But I doubt it would work for me," Sansa insisted. "I'd like to know whom to go to when something specific happens. Not ask every single captain and lieutenant around. In fact, I think this may solve our revenue issue."

Petyr eyed Sansa expectantly. "Carry on."

"I will assign the most efficient man to each area. For instance, Sandor obviously can handle all of the... enforcement with Locke; they've always been good at that. And you, since you've been handling the heroin-side of things for quite some time..."

"You want me to oversee the heroin."

Sansa nodded and smiled. "Yes," she said. "No one can strike deals like you can."

* * *

Once the end of July came around, Sansa was done playing the role of a mourning widow.

She was spending more and more afternoons and evenings outside her home (but never spending a night over; she  _didn' t_ need the rumors), leaving Petyr behind to tend to affairs until her return. Sandor would come along, occasionally, while Brienne came along during the man's absence. And Jeyne well, she needed Jeyne by her side, not that the younger woman mind. She loved hanging out, much to her parents' chagrin.

Sansa was currently attending a cocktail party: nothing too lavish, nothing too bare; it was attended by both locals and out-of-towners alike, hosted by a dear friend and the wife of one of Ramsey's many lawyers, Rosalie "Ros" Larsson.

And damn it, she was doing a wonderful job, Sansa thought to herself as she entered the ladies’ restroom; a room which had been fitted to serve more as a lounge with some toilets hidden behind a velvet curtain. It was lovely; just like the rest of Ros’ home.

She told the host this when she caught sight of the other woman, standing at the other side of the long sink area, applying some more mascara.

Ros thanked her.

Sansa smiled, scanning the woman up and down. Ros was a  _beautiful_ ; a red-headed version of Margaery, always walking around as if she belonged in Hollywood or on the cover of Vogue. Perfect, almost like Margaery had been, Sansa mused. She was a doll, admired by many men, including Petyr. A woman who might be a little bit in over her head especially with a horde of children and husband demanding her presence. She had always liked the attention, she had confessed to Sansa the night her husband celebrated his promotion to partner at his firm. But sometimes, she needed some “me-time.”

Sansa understood completely. It could be tiring, always working on someone else’s behalf. Always putting up a façade with a wide, bright smile, lined with red or pink lipstick, in the best, most fashionable clothes, wearing pumps. “I guess it beats working,” Ros had laughed. “Can you imagine  _me_  being on an assembly line?”

She couldn’t.

“You don’t need any more cosmetics,” Sansa said, being cheeky. “You look lovely enough.”

Ros’ hand froze as she glanced at Sansa, eyes sparkling. “ _Thank_   _you_ ,” and then, “You’re sure enjoying yourself, right?”

“Like I said: I always enjoy your parties,” Sansa said. Ros' parties were always the talk of the town. Even Ramsey and his cronies (with their wives or mistresses) had made appearances, gushing about the entertainment.

Ros let out a joyous laugh, revealing her perfectly white teeth.

Sansa took a moment to revel at the scene.

"You always dish out the best compliments, Mrs. Bolton," Ros said, winking at Sansa, and then gasped, "I'm sorry, are you back to Miss Stark now?"

"I have always been Miss Stark," Sansa reminded the other woman. "Mrs. Bolton was a temporary change."

Ros grinned. "I like the way you think,  _Miss Stark_."

Sansa returned the grin until Ros, seemingly in her own zone, pulled a small, opaque plastic pouch from under the top of her strapless red dress and carefully placed it on the table.

She picked up a piece of tissue from the stack right next to the sink and laid it flat before pouring out some of the substances from the pouch. Sansa knew exactly what it was.

It used to be Ramsey’s poison of choice. It gave him an imaginable high, he had told her a couple of years back when she had first caught him consuming the drug with Myranda, always Myranda, by his side. Doing the same exact thing— junkies, she had called them in her mind. Nothing but sadistic, junkies.

But Ros wasn't a sadist or a junkie. Far from it, but she still separated the white powder into two neat lines like an expert. She still reached over to her half-filled sidecar, picked up the straw from her glass, taping it against its rim to rid of some leftover liquid, and bent down—like she had done it for years.

This was a new development.  

Sansa froze. She wasn't naive enough not to know what she was  _exactly_  witnessing; she had known about the other woman’s habits for quite some time. But she just didn't expect her to do it front of others with no care in the world. She didn't say anything as Ros snorting up a row before standing back up, head thrown to the back, deeply inhaling. She dropped her head forward as she exhaled, dropping the straw next to the tissue, taking another deep breath before rubbing her nose.

It was only when she finally looked through the large mirror when she realized that Sansa had been there the entire time. She was taken aback for a moment, and then gave a nervous smile.

"For a moment, I thought I was alone," she whispered. "My apologies... I forget where I am, whom I am around from time to time."

"I should be the one apologizing," Sansa said, feeling a bit bad that she had violated Ros' space during an obviously intimate moment. And then added, "I harbor no judgement."

Ros was relieved. "My husband knows about this," she insisted, rubbing her nose once again. "At first, he was livid, but then when he saw that I had more energy in and out the  _bed_ , he was fine with it. Just as long as the kids don't play with it."

Sansa nodded, honestly not knowing how to respond. But she supposed that this was just like Ros; she never truly had a filter.  

"Do you want some?" Ros then offered, pointing at a second line. "I usually don't share, but you're such a good friend and well, you're still here."

Sansa looked at the line and shook her head. She never had any desire to snort the powder. Just the thought of a foreign substances following up her nasal cavity had always made her squeamish. But some people swore by it.

"No, I'm fine," she replied politely. "Thank you."

"I have been meaning to ask," Sansa started up again, glancing at entrance to make sure no else planned on coming in. "Why that? Smokes aren't enough?"

"Wine isn't enough," Ros admitted before snorting up a second, thin line. "But this is."

Sansa let out a small chuckle, pointing at the drug with her chin. "Looks like sugar to me."

Ros grinned. "Just as sweet."

Oh, she could imagine.  _Cocaine_. People who could afford it loved it. It might not be as popular as the other contraband like marijuana and heroin, but it did have a following. This sight, only about three feet away from her, got Sansa thinking that perhaps Petyr and Sandor might be onto something.

She took a step back and leaned against the wall. "How much does that cost?" she asked.

"It depends on what quality you desire," Ros said. "I only buy the real stuff. Pure."

"How much?" Sansa asked again.

"One-fifty per ounce," Ros replied. "A little on the expensive side, I know, but it sure does the trick."

"Where do you get it from?"

"I know someone," Ros said, proud, and then, "Interested?"

Sansa nodded. "You meet him somewhere?"

"Oh, goodness, no," Ros said, bringing a hand to her chance, slightly chuckling to the absurdity of the question. "He comes to my place. I'll introduce you to him. He's a terrific man. If you like?"

"Yes," Sansa said. "That would be great."

* * *

The following Friday, Ros invited Sansa over her house for lunch while her husband was away at work and her children were at day camp in northern Westchester. Sansa expected the get-together to be just between them and but ten minutes after arriving at Ros,’ her friend declared that a special guest would also stop by.

Ros was ecstatic.

Which was why Sansa wasn’t alarmed when her friend literally jumped of her coach at the sound of the doorbell ringing. She watched on as her excited friend rushed to the front door and opened it, revealing a slender man who couldn't be more than twenty-five, dressed to the nines in his polo shirt and khakis, with his short blonde hair and boyish grin. He wasn't exactly Sansa's type, but she could why he could be someone's.

He must be the "special guest."

Ros was beaming as she let the man inside her home, doing everything she could to run her hands down the man's toned arms. "This is the man I told you about," she told Sansa. "Olyvar. The Medicine Man," she added with a wink.

_Ah_.

Sansa forced a polite smile and extended her hand, "It's a pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," Olyvar said, sauntering towards the woman. He took her hand and lightly kissed it.

"Please, sit," Ros insisted, leading Olyvar to the living room. She sat in the love-seat across from Sansa while Olyvar pulled up a chair. "It's so nice for you two to finally meet. Sansa's been asking about you."

Olyvar raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Has she?"

Sansa internally bristled in the way Ros made her statement sound as if Sansa wanted the man. He was attractive yes, but not her type. Far from her type. Instead, she forced another smile. "I heard you are a salesman."

Olyvar's smirk dropped as he blinked. He glanced at Ros who didn't seem to have a care in the world, and then back at Sansa. "I guess you can say that," he said, guarded.

" _Oh_!" Ros exclaimed, slapping her lap before rising from her seat, "Let me get you some snacks. Lunch should ready in thirty minutes; my cook had arrived late. I hope it's not an issue."

"It's not," Sansa insisted, not once removing her eyes from Olyvar. His change in behavior interested her. "Is it fine with, Olyvar?"

Olyvar nodded.

"Great! I'll be back."

Sansa was thankful Ros had left. Not because she didn't want to be around her, but she felt that Ros didn't have be involved in this conversation. It was about business, nothing else. She had time to get her point across: about five to ten minutes.

"I've heard about you," she started.

Olyvar's smirked returned. "Oh, you have?"

"Yes, from Ros," Sansa said. "Apparently, you're a dealer."

"Ah, you're a straight to the point kind of gal," Olyvar said, smirk expanding. "I like that."

Sansa cleared her throat and took a sip of her drink. He was a flirt; she had figured as such the moment Ros had opened the door. It didn't matter though; he wasn't going to get anything from her.

"Do you know how I am?"

It was a power-move question. Sansa had witnessed its usage many times by many people under many circumstances. But she wasn't trying to assert her power at this moment; she barely knew the man. She didn't know if he could contribute to her plans.

Olyvar's demeanor shifted from playful and cool, to serious with a silver of apprehension and caution. "I don't live under a rock, Mrs. Bolton."

"Stark," Sansa corrected. "Miss Stark is fine."

" _Miss Stark_ ," Olyvar carefully repeated.

"Then you probably know why I am here."

Olyvar, to her surprise, did not seem to. "Ros was telling me that you may be interesting in my supply?"

"Yes, but not in the matter you probably suspect," Sansa said. "I have no desire to snort anything, but I'd like to make you an offer."

Olyvar raised an eyebrow. "An offer? Like some sort of partnership?”

“Yes, in a way.”

Olyvar mulled it over for five seconds, tops. He shook his head, feigning regret. "I work alone."

"I'd like you to work for  _me_."

Olyvar blinked. "I don't understand..."

If Olyvar didn't understand then he was a fool. Sansa was laying it all out for him. No games.

"It's quite simple, really," Sansa said, relaxed. Her offer wasn’t a sexy one, but she wanted to see if the young man would play along. She was more interested in his contacts rather than his supply. “I’d like you to establish a trade route, I suppose, between your South American connections and here. No more door-to-door dealing with unsatisfied wives. You give me the supply and I will distribute it to all of my connections. Most of which, have money like you would not believe. And for all your troubles, you will be paid handsomely.”

"With all due respect, Mrs. Bolton, that will significantly affect my business," Olyvar pointed out. “I am not really a fan of being the middle man. It doesn’t benefit me.”

Sansa titled her head, slightly confused and taken aback. The man wasn’t thinking long-term. “And how wouldn’t it?” she questioned. "Listen, I know your clientele. Not personally, but by... living the same life as them. The way you are conducting your business is limited, I'm here to offer you something bigger."

"I need to think about it..."

Sansa said. The issue was the money; he didn’t even have to voice it. it had always been about the money. That and pride. "How much do you want?" she asked. "Double?"

"Triple."

Sansa sighed. “A little high, don’t you think?”

"What I sell is Grade A," Olyvar boasted. “Only the best of the best.”

They all boasted that. The best in the industry. No one could touch the level of quality, and then, it would be discovered that they were all full of shit. That was how Sansa felt as the man went on about the quality of his product. This was something she couldn't afford to give the benefit of the doubt.

But then again, Ros seemed satisfied with what Olyvar was selling her.

"Grade A?" Sansa questioned, eyebrow raised. "I was told that you sell one ounce for one thousand. With all due respect, I know some who sells one ounce for two. And they call it Grade A." She leaned forward, dropping her voice as she watched the man gulp. Not one hundred percent suave, after all. "So, tell me, what is the difference between your powder and theirs?"

Olyvar's eyes widened slightly as Sansa sat back up. He gulped and replied in the most controlled voice he could muster, given the circumstances, "It's a bit modified," he admitted. "To stretch it out. Just in case."

"What's the percentage?" Sansa asked.

Her question might have been vague to the layman, but Olyvar, a man who knew something about his cocaine, knew exactly what Sansa was referring to— pureness. "I can't tell you," he said, somewhat apprehensive, but not enough to relinquish his stand. "You know, it's confidential for business reasons."

Sansa expected nothing less. She would have been disappointed if Olyvar had spilled all his secrets. "Of course," she said with a nonchalant shrug. She gave him a reassuring smile, which didn't do much to change his demeanor.  "So, what do you say about my offer? We have incentives and those who can be very  _persuasive_ …"

Olyvar wouldn't stand a chance against Sandor. 

"The offer?" Olyvar questioned, and then quickly remembered once he recognized the lightly-veiled threat. "Oh yes, I'll... have to think about it—"

" _Oh goodness, I'm sorry for the wait,_ " Ros announced, emerging from her kitchen with a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of cheese and grapes. She placed it on the glass living-room table. "Eat it," she said, obviously oblivious to the others' interrupted conversation. "I insist."

"It looks lovely, Ros," Sansa said, finishing her sidecar and poured herself the citrus drink. She looked up at Olyvar who hadn't moved or said a word since Ros arrived. "Would you like some, Olyvar? Ros' lemonade is to  _die_ for."

Olyvar's eyes rested on Sansa; his suave demeanor was making a slow comeback, most likely because of Ros’ cheerful reappearance, but he was still guarded. He looked at Sansa as if he was trying his darnedest to figure her out, but couldn't. Something he didn't appreciate, but he had a history of getting things to go his way—she might not have known him for long, but Sansa could read him like a book.

Maybe because, in some fashion, Olyvar reminded Sansa very much of Petyr.

* * *

Three days later, Olyvar took the offer.

"Are you sure we can rely on him?" Petyr asked after Sansa told him the news. "You just met him."

"Ros swears by him."

"Ros is a sweetheart," Petyr said. "Enchanting woman, really. But she is not the sharpest tool in the shed. One of these days, her husband would realize that."

“Maybe he does,” Sansa contested. “And maybe he likes it. Anyway, intelligence is subjective. You said so yourself."

Petyr stopped. "I did, didn't I?"

"You did," Sansa confirmed. Petyr always liked when reminded him of the lessons learned from him. It was an ego thing.

"Hm."

"Olyvar is well-connected to the Tyrell's," Sansa carried on. It wasn't a fact she had expected, but it was a pleasant and advantageous tidbit. She had made a mental note to mention him to Olenna Tyrell; she knew just about anyone who associated with her family. "He was well-acquainted with Loras. He also can get us shipments straight from South America."

"You trust that he can do this?"

"It's only a trial-run," Sansa pointed out. "I am not expecting much, but I'd like to see what other friends Olyvar has. He seems like the type who gets around a lot."

"He is not the kind of man who sticks around."

"I am quite aware of that, Petyr," Sansa said. "He's just there so I can get my foot in the door. I thought you'd be proud of me for taking the initiative."

Petyr took one closer and said, almost breathless. "I will always be proud of you."

There were times when Sansa knew full and well that Peter was playing her. But then there were times when he believed his own bullshit— during those times, Sansa never could come up with a good response. Instead, she would smile and find ways to change the subject.

Or get the Hound to lead her away, usually for some trivial reason. But he wasn't in the garden today.

* * *

There was another family Olyvar knew relatively well. Or at least, had a connection with: the Martell's. One of the largest distributors of  _anything_  in the Western Hemisphere, moving their supplies in from South America to the southern ports of the United States. San Diego was their stronghold. And Miami, as Sandor would say, was their bitch.

If she was going to move cocaine from South America, she would have to go through the Martell's.

"They're actually a reasonable bunch," Jeyne said. Her father and uncles used to with the family before shifting their allegiance to the North. "Granted, Oberyn would literally  _screw_ anything with a hole and has the weirdest relationship with his common-law wife, but personal life aside, not that much of an asshole."

"Every man in this business is an asshole," Sansa pointed out as she leaned against her second-floor balcony. It was a humid night in Long Island, but she wouldn't let the weather force her inside for the rest of the night.

"Yeah, but he's not as  _much_ ," Jeyne stressed. "And he's not under the control of the Lannister's, much to that horrible family's charging."

"Watch it," Sansa chided, but without much heat. "They're still technically our overlords."

"Not for long."

A wave of apprehensive ran through Sansa's body until she realized that the Lannister's were all the way in Philadelphia. Not by her side. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

"No one stays on top forever," Jeyne said. "You of all people should know that."

* * *

Jeyne was right.

Sansa had known about the roller coaster of success since she was a child. She had seen the highlights of men’s success—her father, her dear brother,  _her late_   _husband_.

And she had witnessed all of their falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Waldorf Astoria: one of the most famous high-end hotels in NYC. A place I'll never be able to afford. 
> 
> 2\. Westchester: briefly mentioned, but it's going to be talked about more in later chapters. It's the county right above NYC; home to some of the richest neighborhoods in the area. In some places, you wouldn't believe it's in the tri-state area with its estates and farms. 
> 
> 3\. Ros and Olyvar: yeah, they were minor characters in the show, but I feel like they would be involved in the business somehow. Just not as prostitutes. 
> 
> 4\. Gringa: (as defined in Webster's as an often disparaging word) is foreign woman in Spain or in Latin America especially when of English or American origin.


	6. Six

 "Jeyne, what do you know about cocaine?" Sansa asked as she poured into a boat-neck black and pink cocktail dress that did wonders to her figures, but not enough to get people talking. She was to attend to a private August birthday party hosted by lovely Olenna Tyrell in Staten Island.

"It's a natural stimulant," Jeyne replied buttoning up Sansa’s dress. "Used to be legal back in the day. They used to put it in everything. Even cola."

But Sansa had already known that.

Sansa took a few steps forward and sat down in front of her dresser, looking through the mirror. Jeyne followed behind her and behind to address the matron's hair—Sansa never wanted Jeyne to think that she was just some maid. She was far from one, but she was much more proficient in makeup and hairstyles than Sansa could ever be. And it wasn't even like a job; at least, Sansa hoped it wasn't. Jeyne never seem it was, despite Sansa's frequent questioning.

She loved these times. Just the two of them. Together with no one bothering them except for Sandor who was obediently standing outside of her bedroom door; it hadn't always been this way. Sandor was an executioner, but he was the only associate Sansa trusted to follow her every mood, and therefore, the man would only be sent on hits during emergencies. Another young man, one of Ramsey's favorites but who managed to treat Sansa like a human, Locke, would take Sandor's place.

"Have you tried it?" Sansa asked, moving her head as her friend directed. Her hair was supposed to be put up into a nice bun, not a stray hair inside. Once done, Sansa reached into her jewelry box and put on her pearl studs.

"No," Jeyne replied. "But my folks have. My pa used to swear by it before he passed. Said it took the pain away."

Sansa pulled out a simple diamond necklaced and handed it to her assistant. "Hm..."

"You’re thinking about getting some?" Jeyne asked, draping the necklace along Sansa's shoulders, bending over, fastening it. “With all due respect, that’s not like you…”

Sansa never considered trying the substance. There was an old saying that everyone in the drug trade should abide by: Never get high off your supply. The closest thing to a narcotic Sansa had ever tried as Benzedrine—a barbiturate— to kill off her night terrors (and forget about the life she had been married into), but she got gotten spooked after Marilyn Monroe's death back in '62. Hadn't touched those pills ever since.

Marijuana had never interested her; the smell was nauseating, and the effects weren't too great (despite what Arya claimed). And heroin? She hated needles, even during doctor appointments. Like Hell was she going shoot up some substance and have tracks up and down her arms.

LSD, as far Sansa was convinced, was for low-lives and those who couldn’t stay out of nightclubs.

"No," Sansa replied. "Just curious." She pulled back her chair and stood up, heading over to her walk-in closets where her slew of shoes was housed. She chose a simple pair of pumps. "Do you think people would buy it?"

Jeyne shrugged as she watched her friend put on her shoes and strut to her floor mirror; she looked stunning. "It's on the expensive side. Especially the pure stuff," she said. "But I'm sure. People will buy anything."

Sansa nodded, staring at her reflection.

Jeyne was right.

* * *

 

“So, this is the real deal,” Sansa said, staring at the bundles displayed on the tables in front of her. She was at a Bolton-affiliated warehouse in Yonkers, standing between Olyvar and Brienne.

“Yes,” Olyvar declared, quite proudly. He was practically giddy, barely able to keep still. It was a far cry from the last few times Sansa had seemed Olyvar; he might be finally warming up to her. “Completely untouched. Completely pure. I got a connection with this Colombian guy working in Peru. They call him La Rocha.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. She might not have known much Spanish, but she tried, “The Roach?”

Brienne quickly chuckled.

“Oh no, it’s referenced to how he cultivated land,” Olyvar said, waving a dismissive hand. “Anyway, most of this stuff was made in the Valle de los Rios Apurimac, Ene y Manataro, aka VREAM, in Peru, away from the authorities. Away from the major population. The BNDD isn’t even involved in that region.

Sansa nodded. The BNDD—the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs—formed not too long ago. Personally, she hadn’t heard much about them; everyone’s focus was on the local police departments and the FBI. This was another thing she had to worry about: her interactions with law enforcement. She didn’t need to be placed in prison; she didn’t want for Winterfell to collapse so if she was going to pull this off, she had to be smart. Everyone had to be smart and keep their mouths  _shut_.

“What do you think?” Olyvar asked, clearly expecting Sansa to sing him praises. He wouldn’t be that too far off, but Sansa wasn’t known for tossing compliments around like dried rice during a wedding. “We can start pushing out these bad boys today and get that money.”

“That’s a lot of blow,” Brienne remarked.

Sansa nodded. They couldn’t sell everyone right now; with the client base she had at the moment, she might be able to get away with selling about a third of the stash in front of her. “I don’t know how you generally conduct your business,” she said. “But I think we ought to start smell. Start building a viable client-base, and then go from there. I don’t want us to be overwhelmed.

Olyvar’s expression dropped, but he didn’t fight on it. “So, we’re just gonna stuck to the usual people?” he asked. “I can definitely bring in more goods, but then… what?”

“Leave the rest to me,” Sansa said. “I’ll let you know if you need any more. Was everything paid off?”

Olyvar nodded, and then, still confused. “So, you don’t want me to sell…”

“No. I’m sure you don’t want to spend the rest of your life being a dealer to lonely, housewives,” Sansa said. “You emit ambitious vibes; you want more so I’ll give you more.”

“I’m fine with this,” Olyvar insisted.

Sansa shook her head. “Even though you interact with wealthy clients, as long as your known as just a dealer, you’re going be on the bottom. Unless, of course, you still want to be one.”

Olyvar caught onto the double-entendre. “I am, just not in that way,” he pointed out, stifling a laugh. Brienne remained tight-lipped, perhaps a bit taken aback by the turn of the conversation. “No longer want to, I mean.”

Sansa got what he meant. “Well then,” she said, smirking. “You can be on the bottom on your own time, but for now, all I want you to do is transport this product over the border and pay our South American friends accordingly. Sounds good?”

Olyvar eventually relented.

* * *

“How pure is this?” Sansa asked Dr. Qyburn the following morning. Olyvar might have promised the world, but she needed to make sure. Her soon-to-reputation in the underground drug market depended on it. She watched the dealer at the corner of her eye as the doctor continued to examine the product.

She had never tried the drug and she would never. She had learned that years ago, indirectly from Ned Stark. Though he had never gotten her involved in the family business (that had specifically been reserved for Robb), he had never been too keen on keeping his daughters and younger sons in the dark.  _Never get high off your own supply_ , he’d always say.

“I can’t say it’s one hundred percent, Mrs. Bolton,” Qyburn admitted. “But it’s damn near close.”

“You did well,” Sansa told Olyvar, impressed, and then, “But this should be diluted. Just in case the product runs out and we can’t afford another batch—which will happen, eventually. Nothing last forever, especially something of such spectacular quality.”

“So, back to seventy-five percent?”

Sansa mulled over it for a moment. “How about eight-five?” she offered. “We need our clients to think there’s a difference between the old and new batch.”

* * *

“So, what do you think?” Sansa asked, patiently waiting for Ros to provide a deliberation. She was at the woman’s house, inside one of her bathrooms, snorting up cocaine from the bathroom counter. Sansa’s cocaine. Only one line, this time.

A part of Sansa felt bad that she was essentially using her friend as a guinea-pig, but if there was anyone who could detect quality of cocaine, it was Ros. And the woman appeared to be very pleased by what she had just ingested.

“Where did you get this?” Ros asked, amazed. She retrieved a clean white towel from the rack and wiped the remaining powder around her nose. “My god.”

Sansa liked the tone behind her friend’s words. “I know a guy.”

Ros laughed and playfully tossed the towel in Sansa’s direction; it landed at the other side of the counter. “Ha! Now, you’re really sounding like Olyvar. You two got on well enough?”

There was a tinge of jealously behind that question, but Sansa didn’t mull over it. There was absolutely nothing between the two business associates. Plus, despite the man’s reputation of sweet-talking every single woman he came across, he had preferences for own sex. Word on the street was that used to sleep around Oberyn and Renly Baratheon (rest in peace). Apparently, he had a boyfriend (or two) stashed away somewhere.

“He’s a nice guy,” Sansa said simply, adding a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t worry; he’s all yours.”

Ros grinned at that. She complied the rest of the drug powder into a neat circle and began to transform it back into the plastic bag. “Thank you,” she said, actually  _thankful_. “It has been a tough week with my husband being  _him_ , and all. This was much needed—but this enough for me now. I have to pick up the children from school in a bit.

She handed Sansa the bag.

Sansa shook her head and handed it back. “Save it for later.”

“Oh no, I can’t—”

“I insist,” Sansa said, forcing a smile. “You’ve introduced me to Olyvar. It’s the least I can do.”

* * *

The visit to Rikers was soon becoming a frequent one.

_Not to be too frequent_ , Petyr had warned Sansa many times. He wanted her to believe that it was for her safety, but she knew the real motive; he had always had a fear of Jon, even before the man got involved in the Ramsey family drama. Jon had a hold on Sansa. He also, apparently, had hold on Daenerys—

Sansa shook the thoughts out of her head. This wasn’t the time to think about the one who had captured Jon’s heart. Or so they said… the whole situation was so messy. So convoluted, she was sure that she was just as confused as Khal Drogo, a man known for his violence, hailing from a family that had always been known for their violence. But as far as Sansa knew, there had been no Dothraki threats towards Jon; Actually, it quite the opposite actually.

She shook her head again. No more thoughts about the Dothraki. She had far more pressings matters to deal with such as the man sitting in front of her, hands folded on the table, completely nonchalant despite numerous prisoners and guards surrounding him. After a moment of silence, Sansa returned to her conversation with her half-brother. Sandor was beside her, watching Jon intently—the men got along well, but Sansa was always protective of those he served.

 Sansa appreciated that more than anyone could know.

Before she could stall the conversation even more, Sansa finally told Jon her grand plan, but it simpler but hidden terms. Although Jon seemed to have every correctional officer currently monitoring the visitor’s area, things could happen. Someone could over the wrong (right) and make their move. Sansa couldn’t afford that. Winterfell couldn’t afford that.

The North couldn’t either.

Jon wasn’t too keen about the idea, but he tried to hide. Sansa told herself not to be too surprised. She should understand where Jon was coming from. She hadn’t been in this business for very long; she hadn’t made the right connections yet.

She was a newbie, she got it, but she wanted Jon to have faith in her. In a matter of a couple of months, Sansa had come from being a supposedly out of the picture housewife to making a partnership with one of Ros’ buddies. If everyone worked out, she would start pushing out their product by the end of the month, once they tied up some loose ends.

It pained Sansa to see that doubtful look on his face, but she quickly reminded herself that it had been the man sitting in front of her who had made her the “regent” to Winterfell. He must have thought she had some capability. Maybe only for maintaining the status quo, and not jumping into a new business venture.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jon said, expression still conflicted. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

Sansa adjusted in the uncomfortable plastic chair, looking around the visitor’s room to see if anyone had their eyes on her. No one did; not even the guards. “It’ll be good for business.”

Sandor wasn’t contributing much to this conversation; he was too busy studying the surroundings… and Jon.

Sansa didn’t mind.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jon repeated again, eyes resting solely on the woman in front of him. He was leaning against the back of his chair, arms crossed revealing the muscular biceps Sansa hadn’t noticed before. He sighed, shook his head and signed again. “Blow? Since when?”

“Since our H-connection fucked us over,” Sandor spoke up. He technically wasn’t supposed to be here for administrative reasons, but no one had dared to questioned his presence. It wasn’t worth the hassle.

Jon glanced at Sandor. “Yeah, I heard about that…” He sat up his in seat, leaning forward. “I thought Petyr had everything under control?”

“He’s working on it,” Sansa said. “But our last shipment was subpar; even our customers are starting to notice that which will affect our revenue, which in turn, will effect our monetary obligations. Especially to the family sitting on top of King’s Landing.”

“How bad is it?”

“Lost about twenty-large last quarter,” Sandor confessed. “We had to come up with the Lannister money in other… ways.”

Sansa cleared her throat, wishing for a drink. But alcohol wasn’t allowed on the premises. “Plus, we had some issues with associates with sticky fingers—”

“They were dealt with?”

Sandor smirked. “Swiftly.”

Jon looked pleased.

“We were able to recover the money,” Sansa quickly added, flashing back to the moment when Sandor had bashed the head of the disloyal employee. “Delivered it on time, but I am still concerned about the lack of revenue. Petyr was able to gather some craps, but our connections out west are becoming increasing unreliable. This was the third time this year, they’ve messed up.

Sansa had only learned about the first two times because of her late husband. Ramsey had been crueler (and more paranoid) than usual during those times. Thanks to some intel provided by organization members who  _didn’t_  hate her, the Bolton’s reputation for being assholes was becoming to rear its ugly head—that had been the reason why Petyr had traveled back and forth between New York and the American southwest.

But Sansa feared that damage had already been done.

“And there’s no other alternative?” Jon asked, rubbing his heads.

“It’s a money-maker,” Sansa said. “And I already have a guy.”

Jon snorted. “You got a guy…”

“She has a guy,” Sandor confirmed. “He’s quite popular with the neighborhood broads—” He paused, sensing Sansa’s disapproving look, “No, sorry,  _ladies_.”

Sansa smiled, but her expression turned gloomy when she looked up at Jon; he was still mulling over the decision to venture into cocaine. Deciding this conversation would have been continued for another day, when she came more prepared to prove to Jon that she did, indeed, knew what the fuck she was doing, she rose up from her seat, announcing that she would be heading out.

Jon looked guilty, not that Sansa wanted him to be. Technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He held out his hand, but made sure not to touch her. He might have made a deal with the guards, but he couldn't make it obvious.

"Hey, sit," he said.

Sansa did.

"I hope you got a good memory, since we can't write anything down and all..." He said, and then sighed. "Tormund Giantsbane."

"Who?"

Jon repeated the name. "He's a guy I met some time back. A part of the Wilding crew. On good terms with the Wall. He's a little rough on the edges, but I figure if you can handle this big guy over here, then you can handle him."

Sandor rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

Sansa was thrilled that Jon had seemed to change his mind. He was giving her chance; that was honestly all she wanted. A chance. She leaned in forward, interested. “What’s his position?”

“Captain," Jon said, being extremely coy for the first time. "He knows about this. Got connections up in Canada. May be helpful if you're trying to expand."

The Wildings; Sansa had heard of them, but they were outside of the Bolton’s sphere of influence. The North had dealt with them from the past, but that only been sparingly.

"I don’t recall us being friends with them."

"We weren't," Jon clarified. "But I kinda changed that. Speak to the man. Drop my name. Heck, drop yours. He knows about the Stark name."

* * *

"Jon doesn't think this is going to work," Sansa told Sandor the moment he moved into the driver's seat of their 1968 Lincoln Continental. She looked outside the car window and grimaced at the sight around her. The island wasn’t pleasant, not even with the New York Skyline peeking out from the distance—she supposed that had been the intention all along.

"He didn't say that," Sandor said, turning on the car, peaking at his side and back mirrors to ensure that it was safe to move out of the parking space. “Plus, he gave you a name. That Tormund-guy. He gave you the green-light.”

Jon had, but it didn’t improve Sansa’s mood.

She didn't immediately reply as she looked onto incoming traffic; it was habit she had developed in childhood. It's always important to be aware of your surroundings, her father would always tell her.

But she trusted that Sandor knew what he was doing. He usually did, whether if it was doing a hit or simply driving his boss around.

She didn't mean to have Sandor as her personal driver; a part of her felt that was a demeaning position for a man with such a reputation. She had considered hiring an actual chauffeur, but then remembered the family's finances. They weren't going broke (nothing like the Greyjoy's), but as Petyr had so eloquently pointed out, wasteful spending was a detriment to the business.

Sandor didn't mind driving Sansa around. He had told her such plenty of times, and Sansa didn't have a reason not to believe him. Sandor was an open-book; he would let someone know, no matter who the person was, if he disagreed with someone.

It was a wonder that he had lasted so long under Ramsey.

"There was a strong insinuation," Sansa argued.

Sandor looked at his boss through the rear-view mirror before driving off. "He just doesn't want to anything to happen to you."

Sansa couldn't dispute that, but, "It's going to work."

"I don't doubt that."

"You’re being hesitant."

"I'm not."

"You're very easy to read, Sandor," Sansa pointed out, slightly smirking. Sandor's eyes always betrayed him.  "That's why I like you so much."

Sansa pictured Sandor’s grin.

"You're not that bad yourself..."

"Thank you," and then, "So, why the hesitance?"

"Boss."

" _Sandor_."

Sandor let out a breath as he fumbled with the dials of the radio. He didn’t want to have this conversation, Sansa concluded, but the driver eventually gave up on the radio. He mumbled something under his breath and then said, with more conviction, "I fucking hate the drug business. It's messy. Rules and tradition tend to get toss outta the goddamn window—"

"Like it doesn't happen with any of the other rackets."

"Yeah, but it's different. There's more money involved, which is nice, but then if you fuck up, everyone's fucked."

Sansa frowned, fishing inside her purse for a compact mirror. She could feel an eyelash going astray. "There's not much of a difference..."

"And with all due to respect, Boss, you're gonna be at a disadvantage. The stuff we have now, we can work with 'cause the connections we got, we had for years. But most of these guys selling blow and making real money are newbies,” Sandor explained and then, quite reluctantly, "You're a woman."

Sansa looked up from the mirror in her hand, raising an eyebrow. "Point being?"

"They're not going to take you seriously."

"The North does."

"Yeah, only because you're a Stark. But outside of that, no one's gonna look at you and think: hey, that lady over there’s a dealer; she may have some good shit and decide to start doing business with you."

"Because I'm a woman?"

"And the fact that you look like a character from  _Leave it to Beaver_."

Sansa sighed and returned her mirror. This wasn't the first time she was described as such. Years ago, she would have appreciated it, but now, she was just annoyed by it. "Thank you, for your insight..."

Sandor cleared his throat, looking at his boss once again through the rear-view mirror. "Look, I'm not trying to offend you. I'm just telling you the truth."

"Like I said, thank you for your insight," Sansa said, giving a half-smile, "And for the record, I wasn't being entirely sarcastic."

* * *

 

“I know you’re not too happy about what Sandor said, but maybe it’s a good thing. You being a woman and…”

Sansa smiled as she helped Jeyne pull out a stubborn weed. The friends were spending the quite afternoon in the home garden, tending to the flowers and the other plants. Although she had some gardeners on staff, Sansa had transferred them to the land where Bolton's hell-house once stood— she would think of a suitable name for the garden she planned to set up there.

Sansa didn't mind not having a full-time gardening staff at her home. As long as the grass was mowed, she could do the rest.

"That's what I'm thinking," she said. "Because no one in their right mind would suspect a member of the Ladies of Sound Society and the Vineyard Beach Club of dealing. Including the cops."

Jeyne nodded before making one last pull of the weed. "Exactly," she said, tossing the annoying plant aside. "Exactly. It'll throw them off."

"I do need a front to mask the potential cash flow," Sansa said. "And nothing in the restaurant, construction or waste management business. That would be far too obvious."

"I agree."

"I agree."

"It has to be cash-based. Like how Petyr has his modeling agency." Sansa grimaced. "Though to be honest, I don't think it's doing that good of a job, serving as a front. At least, to people around here. Everyone knows that his recruits are basically call girls, rejects from Hollywood, fortune seekers hanging around Penn Station..."

"Escorts," Jeyne corrected cheekily. "Give me them more credit. They're not roaming the streets at night."

"Escorts," Sansa repeated, rolling her eyes, standing up to check on the rest of her flowers. Some stood strong; some were wilting under the harsh sun. Her prized tulips would sustain until the fall, about one month from now. She would be sad to see them go, but it would give her an opportunity to plant some Fall vegetables.

* * *

Two days later, while heading home from a visit to Margaery’s grave in Woodlawn Cemetery—an annual tradition—Sansa decided to make a pit stop in Greenwich Village. She soon found the closest record store, leaving Sandor at the entrance as she headed in side, ignoring the curious glances from the patrons. None of them recognized her, but she had an air that told them instantly that she might be out of place.

Sansa ran her fingers along the edges of the records as she walked down the aisle. It had been years since she had been in a record store, and for the life of her, she couldn't understand why she was so entranced by it. So many records, so many songs, all for her brand-new record player to play on demand.

She asked one of the employees for a specific artist. He stopped, looked at her up and down, confused for a moment. And then, after seemingly snapping out of his trance, led her to it.

"Rock n' roll lover?" he asked as he pulled out a vinyl record labeled, The Jimi Hendrix Experience—Hey Joe.

"Not really," Sansa admitted, taking the record for the man's hand and holding it up.

This was just what she needed.

"Buying it for someone then?" he asked.

"In a way," Sansa said, staring at the record in awe. "It's for me."

"It's one helluva song."

"It's a reminder more than anything," Sansa replied, placing the record under her arms. "Thank you, so much for your assistance. I'd like to buy it."

“Sure thing.”

Sansa followed the employee to the register, occasionally glancing down at the record. It was a reminder indeed. A reminder that Theon was still roaming around Mexico, free behind the protective wall of his sister. It was a reminder that she needed to get him out of hiding.

She would eventually, but for now, she had a new venture to focus on—she hoped Olyvar knew what he was doing. For his sake and hers. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Notes:  
> 1\. La Rocha-- I borrowed him from the first season of Narcos. I got the meaning of his nickname off of Google; hopefully, it's right. 
> 
> 2\. VREAM-- a region in Peru known for cocaine cultivation. Apparently, now it's production has increased (I ended up learning more about the relationship between Peru, Boliva and the US when it came to the drug than needed to-- oh, the joys of fanfiction research).
> 
> 3\. BNDD-- The Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, formed in 1968 and would merge into the DEA in the early 70's.


	7. Seven

Shipping contraband up and down the eastern seaboard and the Midwest shouldn't have been this easy. There were thousands of miles to be traverse; numerous states. Numerous police departments. Numerous potential rivals.

But for the first couple of months into this new enterprise, it had been just that.

By the second week of September, Sansa made her first million.

By the second week in October, she made her second.

 “Winterfresh” was making major waves in the market.

* * *

“It’s a fitting name,” Jeyne said as she counted up the mound of hundred-dollar bills on the table in front of her. It was all her money, completely washed (courtesy of some of Stark-affiliated bankers) and taxed-free. "Winterfell. Winterfresh. It's catchy."

"We like catchy," Sansa said, shifting through the pages of her newly-arranged look book. She was getting involved in the interior decorating business; a cash-based business that could be used as a front of her more not so Internal Revenue Service-friendly activities.

She already had several clients lined up, all ready to dish out money to dress their homes. Sansa didn't mind; she already had an eye for interior decorating; even Ramsey had admitted it, though begrudgingly.

She stopped at a page and held it up for Jeyne to see. "You think Olenna would like that?"

"Olenna would like anything that has a picture of Joffrey's dead body on it."

Sansa lightly chuckled before skimming through the pages. She had to impress Olenna; Olenna came from money. Old money and had a lot of old money friends.

"We're in business," Jeyne said, grinning as she attempted to stuff of the dollar bills into her wallet.

Sansa smiled. "We're in business."

* * *

"We made five times as much money with Olyvar's product than we did with Petyr's... stuff," Sansa informed Jon in a whisper. She was at Rikers again, doing her weekly visits. She would only have do come to the correctional facilities several more times; Jon was scheduled to be released in before Christmas. "Your connection’s been a great asset to us."

Jon was glad to hear it. "Tormund is crazy, but he's a good guy. What's your  _adviser_  saying about all of this?"

Sansa didn't want to think Petyr was jealous. The man should be ecstatic about the new update. They had money. But Sansa couldn't kid herself; everyone had a little jealously in them and Petyr, the master schemer, the master plan-marker, wouldn't be the exception. But for now, he was coy about it.

"Watch out for him," Jon warned.

"Always have."

"Good girl."

The smile Jon directed at Sansa gave her butterflies.

* * *

Despite all of her efforts, Sansa knew she couldn't run the Winterfresh portion of the business by herself with only the help of her best friend and assistant, bodyguard and a friend of Jon's who had no qualms bragging about how he fucked a bear.  (Tormund was a humorous guy with an even more humorous, yet adorable, crush on Brienne. But he was a freak in multiple sense of the word).

She had been in the cocaine business for going on two months and though she was bringing in money, she needed something more stable. She needed bring in the rest of Winterfell in, inform everyone that there were going to be changes.

Because Winterfell was no longer only dealing with American dealers. Thanks to Olyvar and his persuasive ways, the Oberyn and the Martell’s had business with them, allowing Winterfell to transport what would later be known as "Winterfell" through the southern border of the United States without much problem.

Just as long as Winterfell delivered the proper payment, which they did. Always on time.

In Sansa's mind, no one could complain about timely payments. Not even the goddamn Lannister's.

Who were getting a little antsy because of the Greyjoy's decision to sever their agreement with the powerful family. It was an admirable decision, Sansa thought, but it was a bad one made at a  _terrible_  time.

The Greyjoy's were losing more men and money by the day. At the rate they were going, not even the Martell's could save him. The Lannister's feared that the rest of their "subsidiaries" would pull a Greyjoy and revolt. In order to quell any fears by Tywin, Sansa had made an executive decision to, "Throw in an extra ten percent to calm them down."

Petyr looked up from the financial books, not entirely pleased. "Ten percent is a significant leap."

"We can afford it," Sansa insisted, running the calculations in her mind. She made a mental note to send the police payoffs by the end of the week.  "Our latest shipment is poised to be in at least a million."

Petyr wanted to fight it, but instead, he said, "Of course. To calm them down."

"To show that we're still loyal to them," Sansa explained, though she didn't feel like she had to. Petyr was well aware of the relationship between the King's Landing and Winterfell. "That ought to keep them off our backs until the new year."

"1969," Petyr said, letting out a small snort. "My goodness, where has the year gone? Just a little over two more months..."

"Time flies when we're having fun."

"Indeed," Petyr said, nodding, and then, "So, about this reorganization plan...."

* * *

About the reorganization plan.

Sansa had a vision. She didn't want Winterfell to operate as an established group of thugs. She didn't want Winterfell to be known as some gang; she wanted it to be an enterprise because "enterprise" carried along legitimacy. And an enterprise needed someone on top.

But there couldn't be a clear "head." At least, not now. At least, not until Petyr was out of the picture which would not be anytime soon. It pained her to admit it, but Sansa needed Petyr's support; she needed the Vale support.

So, she would like him that he was running things as well, not as a sole leader, but a co-leader. He wanted to be by Sansa's side.

And she wanted him—

Her relationship with Petyr was complicated.

Sansa wasn’t entirely blind even during her “ditz” days. She knew about Petyr’s reputation and his wavering loyalty. But she admired his mind, always thinking about a contingent plan. Always full of innovation and whether it was sincere or not, he had gotten her to this point. Without him, without the Vale, she wouldn’t be sitting in this position, being the head of Winterfell until Jon came back.

He was toxic, at best. But then again, so was she to an extent. Anyone in this business was.

She liked to think they were playing a little game. Both trying to see who could outsmart the other first—it was a dangerous game but it kept her on her toes. Gave her excitement, both mentally and otherwise.

Sansa smiled when Petyr took her hand one night, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. Longer than expected. “You’re in a good mood,” she remarked. “I suppose you’re looking for this meeting.”

Petyr stood up, wearing his patented smirk. Sansa hated how much it  _turned_  her on, and based on the glint in his eyes, Petyr had noticed it too. “I thought it’ll be a good meeting, Sansa,” he said, moving closer to her. He looked down at her through hooded eyes. “A very good meeting.”

Sansa didn’t divert her gaze; Petyr’s eyes always had that effect on him. Just as much as Jon’s. Just as much as Sandor’s. “It’ll be good for the business. Even Jon couldn’t speak out against the plan.

The heat left Petyr’s eyes as the man fought back a snort. “Your dear brother is still in Rikers,” he reminded his boss. “Let’s not think about him right now, Sansa.”

Sansa didn’t react to usage of her first name. it had been a habit her adviser had developed weeks ago, and she couldn’t bring herself to question him. Instead, she gave him one last smile before entering Ramsey’s old office. “Of course.”

* * *

Months ago, Petyr had advised Sansa to renovate Ramsey Bolton's office completely. But Sansa had decided strongly against it. She liked the room, the furniture, the bookcases, the wood.

And now, as she sat in the very chair her late husband used to sit in, it made her feel  _powerful_. Maybe it was symbolic. Maybe it was a visual representation to all of the men (and women) around her that Sansa would be taking Ramsey's place indefinitely. Not one had bothered to object to the change; it was good on their part. It made the transition easier.

"If we're going do this," Sansa started off, neatly folding her hands on her late husband's desk, "then we’re are going to do this right. The smart way. We're going to run it like a business and not a street gang."

Because street gangs made a lot of noise and the police were attracted to noise. Way before going after those operating underground. "What do you suggest, Boss?”

Sansa turned to Gendry, one of the rising stars in Winterfell. He was close friends with Jon (who both bonded over the fact that Arya adored them both, both managed to make the ladies believed they were rock stars and that they were both supposedly bastards). Though not as brutal as the other men under her rule, he knew how to wield a hammer when necessary, follow orders, talk to people without resorting to wielding fists. And not make stupid mistakes, which Sansa appreciated dearly.

"No violence,” Sansa replied, raising her voice just to make sure that the even the  _selectively_ -hard of hearing could hear here. "No unnecessary violence, and if you feel like there is no other way, then you're going to be quiet about it. The last thing we need is to be on the news."

"So, we toss people into the Hudson like always?" Sandor asked, earning a chuckle for the other men in the room.

Sansa grimaced at the thought. She never a fan of taking another's life-- she could never be as callous about it as Sandor—but she supposed but the Hudson River wasn't the streets of New York. No one would really see a body in the river unless it washed up in a bank. Which it would, but if there was one thing Sandor and their team was good at it besides the usual, it was disposing bodies.

"Be quiet about it."

"Got it, boss."

"Moving on. Because of this new business-minded arrangement. There are going to be some organizational changes. Now, don't worry; you all still have your jobs," Sansa said, emphasizing the last part of the sentence because of there was nothing like dealing with a bunch of mobsters who were worried about their job security. That was when the drama usually began.

"You all be split into different groups, specializing in different aspect of this business. It has come to my attention that the way things have been operating in the past few months, or even since Ramsey had gotten into power had made things... complicated, so we're going to make some things simpler," Sansa explained, picking up the confusion rolling off of everyone. "We will be still be involved in the usual business matters... loan sharking, collecting tributes, distributing heroin, but we're going to be adding a new industry. Well, it's not new. It's been going on for a couple of months, but I think it's time that we expand.”

Sansa took a deep breath. "The coke business is a tricky business, I know. But it's a money-making business. I'm sure you've all noticed the bonus from the past month—all proceeds from the cocaine sells—"

"You're talking about Winterfresh," Beric interjected, but respectfully. "We've all heard about that."

Sansa nodded. "Good," she said, and then, “I will be picking the captains who will participate in the Winterfresh business while the rest of you maintain our other… industries, I suppose you can call it. And, after much deliberation, it has been decided that Petyr Baelish will be handling all matters pertaining to the heroin business and continue on as the head of Stark Construction.”

She made a point not to look at Petyr’s way for she didn’t tell him about the change of plans.

As far as Petyr believed, he should be involved in Winterfresh, as well.

* * *

"I know what you're doing," Brienne said. He wasn't accusing her boss of anything; actually, she seemed more impressed than anything. "With Littlefinger. That look on his face was priceless."

Sansa gave Brienne a look before entering the car.

"My decision wasn't insidious," Sansa said, waiting for Sandor to appear. They had a North visit to attend to in Brooklyn. "He's been working out our friends out in the southwest for quite some time. It only made sense."

Brienne didn't believe her, but she kept that to herself. "I don't disagree with you," she said. Generally, people in her position wouldn't speak her mind in such a manner, but Brienne had known the Starks for years and had always been loyal; she knew Sansa wouldn't mind. "But—not that I'm questioning your decision, but Gendry? I've never pictured him as a trafficker."

"He's a pleasant enough man. He does what he’s told without much flack," Sansa remarked. "And he knows how to fly planes. Small planes. You don't know how valuable that is."

* * *

"How are the Lannister's?"

_Assholes, as usual_ , Sansa couldn't help but think. Cersei was being Cersei, thinking she ran everything despite the fact that the family business technically belonged to Jaime Lannister—who had been engaging in quite some rebellious (treasonous) activity lately, but that was beside the point.

She couldn't call them  _assholes_  outright. Not in public. Not even inside the visitor's room; who knew that spies could be lurking in the crowd. The Lannister's might not have been too happy with the North (and their own rumors of rebellion), but they weren't ready to wage war. Sansa wanted to keep it that way.

Instead, she forced out her usual smile, and said, "They're fine."

Jon didn't believe her.

In Jon's defense though, Sansa hadn't made much effort in hiding her disdain for the family. "We've made sure to pay them on time," she said. "According to Brienne, the Lannister's are making preparations to strike on the Greyjoy's."

"Oh, boy," Jon said, adding a smirk. "She must've gotten that info from Jaime."

"Their relationship is complicated."

More complicated than the Jon-Daenerys-Khal Drogo one, it seemed.

Jon snorted at that.

* * *

There was a time when Sansa had admired the Lannister's.

Who could have blamed her? Perhaps those who had consistently accused Sansa of being naive, but of course she had been naive. She had been a child, watching the Lannister's power increase through rose-colored glasses. They were rich. Filthy rich. They had power. They had respect. They were practically royalty.

When her father had informed Sansa that she would wed Joffrey Lannister by her seventeenth birthday— as a peace agreement— Sansa had been absolutely ecstatic. If she married into the Lannister’s, then she would have become  _a_  Lannister. Untouchable, and so would the Stark’s. And plus, the Lannister’s had money; tons of it. More than the Starks could ever dream of. They were the most powerful family in the organization. The trend-setters. The rule maker—the judges and the executioners. Controversial as they might be, they were what every family wished to become.

Sansa had been absolutely  _ready_  to make her mark.

So, what had gone wrong? Sansa didn’t even know where to start. But she knew how it ended, how it was continuing: her father, her brother, her other brother and mother were dead. She had witnessed, with her own eyes, her father’s head paraded around on a stake.

The only one she didn’t mind was Tyrion; he seemed to be only Lannister with some sense (with the exception of Tommen, but given that he had died at the ripe-old of nineteen—he hadn’t taken Margaery’s death all too well—there hadn’t been much to judge on). One of the very few people who had been kind to Sansa during her tenure at King’s Landing, New Jersey—but he was still a Lannister.

And she was a Stark.

Technically a Bolton, but Sansa refused to acknowledged it, and most people got with the program.

Her feelings for the Lannister’s had soured immediately and effortlessly following her father’s death, and it was well-known though Sansa did make a point on maintaining some sense of civility. After all, the Stark’s, what was left of the Bolton’s and Winterfell were still subjected to the Lannister’s rule

Which was why it was confusing when she had received the message that Tyrion  _Lannister_  wanted to speak to her in person about a… business proposal.

* * *

So, this meeting wasn’t a joke after all.

Despite calls from Petyr, Sansa had refused to meet up with Tyrion inside her home. Besides the fact that it was her house, she had learned throughout the years that having a conversation with a potential rival in a neutral area would do everyone good. So, she chose a restaurant of hers, in the next town. The owner had recognized her (well, Petyr) and knew what the reservation was most likely about, so he arranged for a table in the back of the restaurant, where private parties were hold. For privacy.

Sansa gave the owner an extra hundred for his troubles.

“Your Boss wants to do business with  _us_?” Sansa questioned, raising an eyebrow after taking a sip of her coffee. It was mid-afternoon, but she needed caffeine especially if she would have to suffer through this… whatever it was. She took a quick moment to identify the song playing softly in the background—it was Frank Sinatra; her mother’s favorite—and then, “Mr. Lannister…”

She trailed off upon hearing a grunt coming from Sandor, only standing a couple of feet away from her, eyes grilling into the smaller man as his hands occasionally ghosted over his Barretta. Sansa doubted he would do with anything without her advisement, but she had to keep an eye out for him. 

The bodyguard hated the Lannister's just as much as Jon which meant his level of hatred was on unimaginable levels. 

Tyrion took notice, but being the smooth-taking (rational) man he was, he kept his thoughts and worries to himself. “Tyrion, I insist,” he said, bringing a hand to his chest, slightly bowing his head.

Sansa slightly smiled. She appreciated the fact that he had come to her with some… professionalism, she supposed. Not an ounce of arrogance was detected. “Tyrion,” she stressed and then, “Winterfell has been doing business with your family since Prohibition. What else do they want, more money?”

She noticed Petyr shifting in his seat; he was sitting beside her, watching the Lannister through suspicious eyes. Or maybe he was just studying the man; he had always been known for analyzing each person he encountered—Sansa supposed that was what she liked about him. Perhaps, if she wasn't being honest to her, the only thing she liked about him. 

Sansa’s attention shifted to the man by Tyrion’s side: Greyworm— he might look young and be well-mannered and tailored— _He looked like one of those Ivy-boys_ , Ros had told her once, eyeing the man as she had licked her lips— but he was no slouch. He was a captain of impressionable-size army of associates. He was usually on the front lines, dishing out orders… for Khal Drogo. Which was why Sansa was surprised to see him walking besides Tyrion without his usual gang. He had a gun at his waist, practically everyone did, but did not appear ready to draw it. 

They locked eyes. Sansa gave him a polite smile; Greyworm returned it.

Returning her attention back to the man sitting across from her, Sansa noticed that Tyrion was a bit taken aback by her previous question. He shared a look with Greyworm before responding, “Oh no, you have got it all wrong. I don’t work for them anymore.” He took a deep breath, and, “We had a bit of a falling-out after they accused me of killing the wonderful Joffrey.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I suppose you can say, switched allegiances,” Tyrion said, adding a smirk.

Sansa hadn’t heard about that. Sure, she had heard about Tywin and Cersei’s accusations; everyone, even the cops, had heard about it. But no told her about Tyrion leaving the Lannister’s. How was he still alive?

“So, whom do you work for?” Petyr asked.

“Khal Drogo,” Tyrion announced, quite proudly.

Greyworm’s nod was confirmation.

Sansa tried not to drop her jaw.

"A Lannister working for a Targaryen," Petyr said, smirking in his usual way. "What are the odds?"

"Dothraki," Greyworm corrected. "Khal Drogo."

Petyr meant what he said. Khal Drogo was a powerful man, but everyone knew that Daenerys was a powerful woman; she had an uncanny ability to make men bow down to their knees and follow her. Except for her brother, but he wouldn't live to tell the tale. 

_A crown fit for a king_ , Petyr had informed her a few years back, upon hearing the news of the male Targaryen's demise at the hand of his brother-in-law. As brutal as his execution was, Sansa couldn't say she blamed Drogo. Viserys had been threatening to take the rein of the organization; of course, that would happen. 

"So, your new Boss, Khal Drogo, wants to do business with us," Sansa said, needing this conversation to get to the point. "Explain."

"We've been hearing about your new business venture," Tyrion said. "I heard it's been going well. It's smart getting in that business. Very profitable."

And very dangerous, she could hear Jon say, but Jon, despite all of his heroics, was known for playing it safe. If she could handle living with the Bolton’s, she could handle anything.

“Point?”

“Well, I believe we can open some opportunities out west, in particular, Las Vegas,” Tyrion offered, cutting into his rare-cooked steak. “Despite my family’s efforts, the Dothraki has a strong hold in that area, all the way up to the Dakota’s. We can transport many things.”

“Then, why haven’t you?”

“You have the top-notch product,” Tyrion replied as if it was the most obviously thing. “I’ve heard many good things about your brand of cocaine. Don’t they call it Winterfresh on the streets?”

\--------------------------------

Sansa wouldn't give Tyrion had an answer to his proposal. Tyrion wouldn't be surprised by the decision. "I'll give you some time to mull things over," he said, finishing up with his lunch. "It's a lot, I know, but it'll be worth your will. The Dothraki might be the Dothraki, but they're far more honorable than the Lannister's."

Sansa wanted to snort at the comment. No one in this business was "honorable." Not even herself, she finally accepted. She was making money off of an addictive drug-- there was no honor in that. But she had made a vow, ever since she little girl, that she would keep the Start name alive. That she would do anything in her power to make Winterfell prosper, and that was what she was going to do.

"I'll give you an answer next week," Sansa said. "That would give the both of us more than enough time."

"Agreed."

* * *

Sansa still hadn’t forgotten about Theon.

* * *

“I need Reek back.”

“He is a non-factor.”

“I still need him back.”

“I wouldn’t waste all of your resources on fetching some of hopeless man for a hopeless cause…”

But Petyr was wrong. It wasn’t hopeless because Theon would be back in New York before the winter. Theon  _owed_  Sansa. He needed to answer to her. She still wouldn’t forget the fact that he had held a gun to her. She didn’t care that he had been panicking after realizing that Sansa had known the truth about Myranda; the man still had no  _right_.

She thought about asking Locke to bring the man back to the United States, but as soon as the idea came to her, she squashed it.

The police knew about Locke, even more than they knew about Sandor. Locke wouldn't have been able to cross the Southern border and back without the authorities being notified and that was the last thing she wanted.

Getting Sandor to fetch Theon was out of the question; he might actually kill the man along with the way and start a conflict with the Greyjoy's.

Who honestly couldn't afford to be involved in another squabble (the Mexican government was still giving them Hell... sort of; it was complicated), but that was beside the point.

So, she went to the next best person. One who was on the police's (or the FBI's) radar. Only to get information.

She ended up getting much more.

* * *

"You remember Theon, don't you?"

Normally, Sansa wouldn't be asking the neighborhood ladies about anything regarding her business (and if so, she was awfully vague), but Ros and her family had ties to the business. Not directly, but she knew everyone and everyone knew her.

She poured herself a cup of hot tea as she waited for a response from her friend. They were at the formally-Bolton home, sitting outside of the backyard porch, watching the leaves blow in the wind.

"You mean that skinny fellow?" Ros snorted. "Yeah, I remember him. My five-year-old has bigger balls than him."

Sansa bit her lip. That wasn't the response she wanted; far from it. Petyr had made it sound like there had been something going on between Ros and Theon— or maybe there was, and Theon had spurned her. 

"Why do you say that?" Sansa asked. 

"Figuratively," Ros corrected. "Not literally."

Sansa nodded. "Ah," and then asked, feeling a little risqué. "So, how was he?"

She was not interested in Theon, physically or emotionally. Never was and most likely, never would be. She understood that her late husband had been a master at psychological warfare, but the way Theon, a grown man, had submitted to a man who literally had cut off his—"

" _Literally_?" Sansa asked, raising an eyebrow. "Did you know about—?"

"Ramsey cutting off his balls?" Ros asked, stifling a chuckle. Oh, he must have done her wrong. "Explains a lot, doesn't it?"

"So, you mean, figuratively."

"His balls?"

"Yes."

"We messed around before that incident."

Sansa nodded. "Ah... so, how was it?"

"Look at you, being all interested in the sordid details," Ros laughed and shrugged. "Had better. The man had the nerve to call out another woman's name-- your late husband's girlfriend." She sucked her teeth. "He got some nerve."

Sansa grimaced. Ramsey had done that; plenty of times. "Myranda seemed to have a hold on many men..."

"That's what got her killed, right?"

Sansa eyed her friend. "You know about that?"

Ros shrugged. "Don't let the pretty face fool you, I know more than I let on." She sighed, reaching out for a piece of bread--which she only ate when pregnant or stressed. "He told me he was gonna do it."

"Excuse me?"

Ros rolled her eyes not at Sansa, but at the entire situation. "He kept going on and on about how Myranda belonged to him. And that he was a better man than Ramsey and how she didn't want him... you know, the usual bullshit. I told him that he should just let it go and find another dame..." she sighed and shook her head. "I guess he couldn't."

"Didn't want to," Sansa suggested, and then asked, "Did the cops talk to you?"

The investigation into the Myranda-murder was odd, to say the very least because there really wasn't one. Myranda had never been very close to her family, and the friends she did have weren't talking. No one even reported her murder. 

If Myranda hadn't been such a bitch, tormenting her during all that time, Sansa would have cared more. 

"No," Ros said. "Not that I'd say anything. She deserved to die, especially after treating you like that. Like you didn't matter." She snorted. "Hell, I wouldn't have blamed you if delivered the fatal shot."

Sansa cleared her throat. The thought had crossed her mind many times, but she kept on telling herself it wouldn't have been worth it. And it seemed that she was absolutely right. Let Theon have the burden. 

"So, why are you asking about him?" Ros asked, effectively snapping Sansa out of her thoughts. "Haven't heard that name in months..."

"I need him back in the US," Sansa revealed. It wasn't much of a secret. 

"Why?"

"I'm getting involved in a new business—"

"Cocaine?" Ros interjected and then laughed at her friend's surprised expression. "Honey, like I said: don't let the pretty face fool you. I was wondering why you were letting me experiment with that new nose candy."

"Maybe it was Olyvar's?"

Ros shook her head. "No, this was much higher quality," she said. "What happened to heroin?"

"I need something new."

Ros nodded, taking a sip of her Sidecar. "I can get him back, you know."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. She was planning on just asking Locke; he was good at tracking people down, but he was known to the authorities, both American and Mexican. Technically, he was still on probation. "Really?"

"Really," Ros insisted with a smirk. It was a sly one, reminiscent of Margaery. "My cousin-- you know, the beauty queen-- is the mistress of some head police guy in Mexico. Guadalajara, to be more specific."

"The Greyjoy's are more on the coast," Sansa pointed out. "Around Baja California."

"Yeah, but they're doing some business in  _there_ , too," Ros said. "My husband knows someone out of there. Rumblings about a new coke product selling on the streets, but at a lower quantity. Says it's distributed by a lady wanting to be a man— I assume that's Yara?"

Sansa nodded, though she was never sure if Yara wanted to be a man. She was just not interested in gender-based customs. Just like Arya. 

"Okay," she decided. "Get Theon back here. How much do you want?"

"Give me a day or two," Ros said. "And I'll give you everything. Don't worry, you'll get a family discount."

"Thank you."


	8. Eight

“Do you see yourself marrying again?” Jeyne asked during an amateur game of cards. It was a slow night. Ros wasn’t demanding their presence. Most of the staff and associates were home with their family. Sandor was off enjoying a night with the guys (Locke remained back at the main house for protection) and Petyr had been off to New Mexico again. 

The demands of Sansa's emerging business could wait until the morning, when she would meet up her team to discuss her next move. Sansa was still guarded about working with Tyrion, but the decision wasn't hers to make. Jon, although in prison for another month, was officially the head of Winterfell; she was just the interim boss.

(Though it seemed that quite a few of her men and Brienne completely disregarded the fact that Sansa wasn't Jon).

And Jon, she had told him about Tyrion's proposal, and he had been all for it.

It would provide Winterfell an opportunity to expand to the West Coast.

To Vegas.

(“His decision could also be the result of him sleeping with Daenerys until he went to prison,” Jeyne had pointed out, but Sansa chose to ignore him. The more she could not think about her Jon’s relationship with a married woman, the easier her life would be.)

But all of this Dothraki talk could wait until the morning.

Sansa stared her hand of cards as she mulled over her friend’s question. Marriage. Oh, how much she used to love the concept of marriage when she was child. By the time she was ten, she already had her wedding plan. She would marry prince charming, they would have a horde of children and living happily ever after—what a loud of bullshit, she couldn’t help but bitterly thought.

She played a card.

“I don’t have a reason to,” Sansa admitted.

“Don’t you want children?”

“Not in this environment.”

“Don’t you want someone in your bed at night?”

Sansa let out a snort. “You don’t need a husband for  _that_.”

“I suppose you don’t,” Jeyne said, playing a card. “But I know the nights can be lonely. Everyone wants to be loved. Even widows of sadistic bosses,” and then, “How about that single’s party Septa had mentioned about last week? Would like to attend that? It’s going to be blast, I hear. Taking place on top of a rooftop bar in the city.”

Sansa played a card. “Are you going?”

“I got to get my mother off my back about my lack of a husband,” Jeyne said, rolling her eyes. “So, yeah. I’ll be there.

And you should too, not only because I don’t want to go to a party alone, but because I think it’s time that you…. I don’t know: open up.”

Sansa looked up at her friend and rose an eyebrow. Opening up wasn’t something she did; wasn’t something she had done since she was fifteen. She was a guarded woman, had been for years. It was a source of protection because every time she had opened her heart, it had only ended in heartbreak… and death. It didn’t matter if it was a man or a woman. Especially a woman.

Oh, Margaery.

She could still feel the woman’s touch. Her smile. Her reassurances. Her spirit—she had been ready to conquer the world. Push Cersei Lannister off her stool and make the Tyrell family, especially Olenna, proud. But despite her talents, Cersei had beaten her to the punch.

"You thinking about her, aren't you?"

Sansa almost dropped her cards.

Jeyne wasn't dumb— a blessing and a curse in Sansa's mind. Because although she appreciated her friend's mind, she wished she would just let things go over her head. Like her... whatever... with Margaery. It wasn't anything. Margaery had been a welcoming presence. A breath of fresh air. Nothing more. A part of her wished it was more.

"I'll go with you," Sansa eventually decided because she wanted to support her friend. She wasn't planning on bringing anyone home or becoming someone's wife. She was done with that for now. She had enough men-related problems to deal with. "I'll be there."

* * *

The mixer turned out just as Sansa had predicted. Jeyne had fetched herself a series of dates, and Sansa, though sensing some potential went home empty-handed.

"You'll get some luck," Jeyne assured, grinning as she sifted through the notes in her purse; all names and numbers.

Sansa doubted it.

* * *

"Why don't you like her?"

Sansa frowned at the question. Jon had gotten it all wrong; she had nothing against Daenerys, it was just Daenerys was a part of another organization. Daenerys was the daughter of the man who had nearly destroyed the Stark's and Winterfell back in the thirties— Sansa just didn't trust her.

She didn't understand why Jon did.

"I've always been cautious about making new... friends," Sansa admitted. It was the closest statement to the truth.

Jon sighed. "She's not Cersei."

In a way, that was the problem. Because Sansa  _knew_  Cersei; she knew how she operated. 

"I have not rejected her proposal."

"You won't."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, wanting to challenge Jon, but then she remembered that she wasn't the one in charge. She was in the position she was in because Jon put her there. Jon was the boss of Winterfell, not her.

Before the year ended, she would have to hand over her power back to Jon. That had always been the plan and Sansa did not intend on messing with it.

She just hoped Jon knew what he was doing.

"Of course."

Sansa didn’t tell Jon about Theon.

* * *

"Winterfell won't regret this," Tyrion promised a few days later over a round of drinks. He was alone this time, with Greyworm hanging outside of the private restaurant room with Sandor.

Sansa forced a smile before taking a sip of her wine, and then asked, "And the Cosa Nostra?"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"

"They still control Las Vegas, don't they?" Sansa said. "I just want to make sure we won't have any problems with them once Winterfresh hit the area."

"There's nothing you should worry about, Mrs. Bolton," Theon assured. "We will deal with them. Just hand us the Winterfresh you want to be sold."

Tyrion's words did not do anything to ease Sansa's nerves.

But there wasn't anything she could do.

Fifty kilos of Winterfresh was delivered to Tyrion the following Sunday. At face value, worth over 300 thousand dollars.

Daenerys brought the entire bundle for 500 hundred grand.

“That’s a 150-percent markup,” Jeyne pointed out, amazed, as soon as Tyrion and his crew left the Brooklyn warehouse. “We just made huge profit.”

“Well, look at that,” Gendry said, pulling Jeyne into a joy hug.

Sansa couldn’t share their happiness.

* * *

Ros delivered on her promise to bring Theon back to the United States.

To be completely honest, Sansa didn’t expect Ros not to follow through; even with all of her issues, the woman was always good at keeping promises—Sansa didn't think it would happen so  _fast_.

Theon, now in her custody, was currently being held in a basement of a guest house in Scarsdale. She specifically did not want to hold Theon in Long Island or New York City, that would have been too obvious.

She watched her prisoner as he roamed around the space, blocked from descending up the stairs by a gate, fifteen feet away from the exit, extending from one side of the basement to the other, conveniently installed for Ramsey's hounds.

Sansa had four men standing guard, two every twelve hours. Having all those men watching one man might have been considered an overkill, but Theon was a valuable commodity. She couldn't have anything happen to him, including escape.

She did not plan on staying at the guest house for much longer. She just wanted to see Theon face to face; Afterall, it had been months still they stood only feet away from each other. "You will be residing here for the time being," she informed Theon. "The area is even equipped with a bathroom, albeit small, but it will do the trick."

"Why are you doing this?" Theon asked, pulling at his hair. Ros' connections had picked up in the middle of the night. The man hadn't been given time to change out of his pajamas before being pushed into the truck of the car. Sansa had provided Theon a fresh set of clothes earlier, but the gift was still lying on the table.

"You pointed a gun at me," Sansa reminded Theon. "You threatened to kill me if Ramsey found out about Myranda—"

"And he did!"

Sansa didn't flinch. "What would you have me do?" she asked, titling her head in an admittedly patronizing manner. "Not tell my husband that you threatened my life?"

"He wouldn't give a shit."

"You're right, he wouldn't have. He didn't, but he did give a shit about Myranda."

"You hated that bitch."

"I did," Sansa admitted with a slight shrug. After all, it was a common knowledge. “But not enough to kill her. You have made your choices, and now, I have made mine.”

Theon’s confidence decided to make a comeback. "What are you gonna do?” he asked, scoffing. “Kill me?"

Some people were worth more than they were dead.

Some people weren't.

Theon was the latter.

Sansa shook her head. "With all due respect, it wouldn't be worth it." She let out a deep breath. "But you do owe me and I plan to get my payment one way or the other."

"You want money?” Theon asked, throwing up his arms. "Fine! I'll get you—"

Sansa silenced Theon was a raise of a hand. "No."

“Sansa—”

Sansa ignored Theon as she took a few steps back. She knew exactly what she was going to do with him, but Theon didn’t have to know. After all, he would find out soon enough. She turned her attention to the guard on her left. "Please make sure our guest is well taken care of," She told him, "I don't want to return him to his sister harmed in any way."

"Of course, Boss."

" _I thought we were friends_ ,” Sansa heard Theon say as she walked away, causing her to pause in her step. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to reminisce about the times when things were simpler with Theon. She opened her eyes and turned around.

"I thought so, too," she said quietly, and then turning back around, heading to the staircase, "But obviously, you believed otherwise. "

* * *

Petyr never did like when Sansa made plans without his knowledge.

"Theon Greyjoy is currently residing in a basement in Westchester," Petyr announced the moment he walked inside the Sansa’s office. "Care to explain why?"

He didn't sound too pleased.

Sansa wanted to remind Petyr that she was one who ran things and therefore, she didn't have to tell him a damn thing. But instead, as usual, she chose the more diplomatic route. "He's a bargaining tool."

Petyr raised an eyebrow and inched closer. "Excuse me?"

"We're going to use Theon to get some access to Mexico. The Greyjoy's are using Mexico as a stop to transport cocaine from South America to this country," Sansa explained. "Right now, even with the Martell's cooperation, we can't transport anything south of the board via roads. But the Greyjoy's have. This will be our best bet."

She knew she was making her plan sound so easy. She was venturing into another country with more drama regarding drugs than the United States. If she wanted to work in Mexico, she was going to have to deliver a monetary gift to many people, but then again; she was practically doing the same thing in the United States.

Petyr, as expected, was cautious about the plan. "With all due respect, Miss Stark," he started off, trying not to sound... offensive. He was really holding back, "But I hope you haven't forgotten that the Greyjoy's are allied with the Lannister's."

Sansa leaned against the back of her chair. "Technically, we all are, Mr. Baelish," she pointed out. "And don't worry, I have no intentions on severing that relationship. Actually, I believe an arrangement between Winterfell and the Greyjoy's would be mutually beneficial."

"Explain, if you may."

"The Iron Islands Cartel are split into two factions: one aligned with Euron Greyjoy and one aligned with Yara Greyjoy," Sansa pointed out. "Euron Greyjoy is a difficult man and not easily swayed; if he wants to work with the Lannister's then let him be. Sooner or later Tywin is going to stab him in the back."

"Just like the Lannister's always done.”

"Exactly,” Sansa said. "As of now, I'm only interested in Yara's faction. The ones who produces the marijuana and receive shipment of cocaine from South America. We get their cocaine, we gain control of some Mexican drug routes. Give the Greyjoy’s a percentage—goodness know they need it to pay off some debts and people—and we expand our inventory.”

"You're suggesting that Yara work behind the Lannister's back."

"People have done worse for family,” Sansa pointed out. “And to make sure that our agreement goes smoothly, as I’ve alluded to earlier, we can give them some of the proceeds. Just so they don't feel left out."

"The Lannister's will be concerned about the Greyjoy's sudden uptick of revenue. Remember, they haven't been able to pay their debts to them during these pasts few months. That's why they're moving in."

"Yara is a smart woman. I'm sure she can figure that out."

* * *

With the help of Ros' friends south of the border, Sansa was able to arrange a meeting in early November between herself, representing Winterfell, and Yara. After informing Yara's contact that Theon was safe and sound.

She truly hoped the man appreciated everything Yara had done for him; Sansa wasn't too sure that he deserved it.

* * *

This venue wasn't Sansa's first choice.

It wasn't her choice at all, but Petyr had insisted that she couldn't possibly meet a Greyjoy at a place of respectability.

Personally, Sansa didn't find the Brooklyn club that distasteful. She would rather be here, surrounded by other clubgoers, mostly hippies, smoking up a storm, having a great time while listening to the entertainment of the night. 

"Who's this again?"

Brienne let out a low chuckle, glancing over the balcony and down at the musicians rocking it out with a very engaged crowd in front of them. The whole club was loud, but one could still hold a conversation on the second floor. "Steppenwolf."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Never head of them."

"They're a rock n' roll group hailing from Canada, boss," Brienne said, nodding along the music. She wasn't a hippie or what not, she insisted, but she loved rock n' roll. Especially, the Doors.  "They got a big hit this year,  _Born to be Wild_."

"A fucking great song," Sandor added, chugging down his beer.

" _Like a true natures child. We were born, born to be wild..."_

This must be the song, Sansa realized as she, for the first time, paid attention to the lyrics. The crowd went wild when the front man took a breath and sang out with the microphone practically against his lips " _Born to be wild_...." followed by a musical interlude featuring guitars and the drums.

"Hey, little lady...."

For a moment, Sansa thought Sandor was speaking to her. He always had his little nicknames for her; none as infuriating as Petyr's. She looked to her left and realized, with much disappointment, was that the comment had not come from Sandor who was indeed on her right. But a young man with shaggy blond hair and dressed in hemp from head to toe. She supposed he was attractive but he was far from the vicinity of her type. "Excuse me?"

The man seemed harmless, perhaps the only reason why Brienne and Sandor didn't immediate jump to action. He took one long drag of his rolled-up weed and handed the joint to Sansa.

Sansa scrunched up her nose and put up a hand. She despised the smell of weed. "I don't smoke," she told the man.

Brienne stood up straight, eyeing the man intently while Sandor look one look, snorted and looked beyond the balcony, reaching out for second beer. The man was taken aback as if it was bizarre that someone here would turn down a joint. "Not even a cigarette?"

Sansa glanced at the man. She hoped he would have gotten the point that she didn't want to deal with him, but he must feel brave and from the ways his eyes fluttered, he was interested in him. But it was once-sided. Her gaze zoned on the joint between the man's fingers and said, "That isn't a cigarette."

The man still didn't get the hint; instead, he threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. "I love a lady who can tell the difference—"

She could care less what he  _loved_ ; she locked ears with Sandor was trying his best not to make a scene. But since, his boss was silently giving him the greenlight, he approached the man, practically dwarfing him, and snarled, "Fuck off."

That seemed to do the trick.

"I can get rid of him," Sandor offered after the man scrambled away, dropping his prized weed along the way.

Sansa's wave was dismissive.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sansa was disputed by a page who leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Greyjoy is here.”

Sansa took a sip of her drink and nodded. Her gaze went beyond the glass barrier to the floor below. Someone was here alright; the crowd split as the new arrivals walked further into the club, heading to the staircase. She raised an eyebrow at the sight; their entrance was more subdued than usual; usually, Yara would be rolling in, twenty men deep. She always had a goddamn army in tow, but now, there were only about ten men.

Sansa let out a sigh and told the page that she was ready to receive the visitor—She was looking forward to speaking with Yara; she hadn't seen the woman in quite some time. They were never friends; their alliances never really allowed to. But neither woman hated each other; all disagreements were just business.

It took a few moments for the guest to arrive at the table, but the person in front of her wasn't Yara, it was someone she hadn't expected to see. Aeron Greyjoy. A retired writer turned aspiring monk of some sort, she remembered Petyr telling her. A man who wanted nothing to deal with the Greyjoy business, not that Sansa could blame him. But now, it appeared that Aeron was back in the spotlight, no longer watching over Euron, but his niece.

Aeron picked up on Sansa's confusion and adjusted his suit jacket; he was far overdress for this venue. "Miss Greyjoy could not make it tonight," he said. "Schedule conflicts."

"I see," Sansa couldn't really be surprised. She would have been pleasantly surprised if Yara show up after traveling up from Mexico. She gestured Aeron to sit down across from her. "So, she sent you?"

"So, she sent me," Aeron replied, not appearing too happy about the schedule change. "I don't believe we've met. Let me introduce myself--"

"Aeron Greyjoy," Sansa said. "The brother of Balon and Euron Greyjoy. Yes, we may have not met, but we do know about each other."

"My niece wants my nephew back."

Sansa appreciated Aeron's straightforwardness. She couldn't count how many times people had wasted everyone's time with frivolous talk when business was supposed to be a damn. "She's a good sister," she replied, truthfully. She was sure she would do the same for her own siblings. "Of course, she does."

“Why did you take him?”

"It's nothing personal..." Sansa insisted. Which was a lie of some sort. It was a mixture of business and personal vendetta. After all, Theon had threatened her. Theon owes Winterfell a great debt. I mean, people have killed for less, haven't they? Luckily for him, I am not the homicidal type, so let's make a deal, shall we?"

Aeron studied Sansa for a moment, and then nodded. "What do you have for me, Mrs. Bolton?"

* * *

Arya returned mid-November.

Her arrival was unplanned and unannounced, which honestly, wasn't that unusual. Arya could be a very stealthy woman when she wanted to be. But it didn't mean that Sansa was not surprised to see her sister one early Sunday morning, right before heading out for church.

At first, she thought it was an apparition. She got that occasionally, but only of her dead relatives— for a moment, she panicked thinking that she was looking right at a dead Arya; she had been in a warzone after all. But she accepted the fact the figure thirty feet in front of her was indeed Arya.

“Arya..." she breathed out, bringing a hand to her mouth.

Arya glanced her way, slightly smiling, carrying two suitcases. Her attention returned to the wall in front of her where an ode to their father hung.

It was portrait of their father painted by an artist whose clients were royals. He had paid a fortune for the painting; her mother had complained. Useless thing— But Sansa had never thought it was useless. It was grand; it presented Ned in the way she had seen the man in her own eyes. Powerful, noble, always looking out for his family and friends (at a cost, unfortunately).

Sansa had obtained the portrait following her father's execution, before she had been betrothed to Ramsey. As expected, Ramsey hadn't liked the painting and ordered it destroyed.

Thankfully, Reek had only hidden the portrait and Sansa had retrieved it from its place in a dungeon, only to hang it up in the hallway leading to her late husband's office.

She smiled at it; it looked just as spectacular as if had been all those years ago.

"I wasn't expected you."

Arya sighed. "I wasn't either."

There was something about that response that had unnerved her, but Sansa didn’t show any concern on her face. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but..." she trailed off, trying to find the right words. Arya wasn't supposed to be back in New York until June. It was only October of the previous year. "What happened?"

"War's getting crazy," was Arya's reply. It was supposed to be a nonchalant one, but Sansa knew her little sister. She could hear the tragedy behind her voice. "Taking a break."

"How long of a break?"

Arya locked eyes with her sister. "Indefinite."

Sansa drew in a breath. "The army allows that?"

"I didn't work for the army, Sansa," Arya pointed out, trying not to roll her eyes. But she still ended up looking annoyed. "It was a company that was contracted by the army. Two vastly different things."

"Right," Sansa said, and then, looking down at the suitcases. "You want to stay here?"

Arya snorted. "I fucking hate Long Island." She leaned in, narrowing her eyes. "I thought you did, too."

Sansa got it. She had planned to move off the massive island. Probably get a place in Westchester, but something was holding her back. She hadn't thought about moving in several weeks.

"It's becoming more bearable."

"Why? Because that goddamn bastard is finally gone?"

Sansa frowned. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Sansa's frowned only deeper.  _You didn't have to_. Was her disdain for Ramsey that obvious? Surely, no one would blame her but she had made a concerted effort until maintaining an impassive exterior.  "Come along," she replied instead. "I'll show you your room."

* * *

"And this is the other side of the home. Mrs. Bolton, you cannot beat this view. No matter what the season is, you will have an exclusive look at the Sound. Perfect for a nice breakfast or picnic out back..."

Sansa hadn't planned on going house hunting. She had no intentions on selling her home of a few years (and abandoning her precious garden). But Arya had gotten her thinking. Why should she stay in a home where she had suffered so many horrors? At times, she could still hear Ramsey's sadistic laugh echoing throughout the wide hallways.

She still couldn't walk inside the room where their so-called marital bed resided. Or the room Myranda had been, conveniently connected to Ramsey's.

And then, there was the basement. Where Roose Bolton had been stabbed. Where she (and Theon) had been forced to stay when Ramsey had been in his moods.

Sansa was searching for a similar home in size, and in a week, she believed she found it. The home was lovely and the property extended to the shore line of the Long Island Sound. Just a boat trip away to Westchester and southern Connecticut.

"It's a beautiful home," Sansa remarked, adjusting her sunglasses as she followed the others around the backyard.  "And you're certainly right about the view."

It was a chilly morning, but the sun was out in full force. Sansa relished under it (despite forgetting her sunscreen again) and made her wish for the summer to return. At least, the sight of the waves hitting the shores in the distance could remind her of warm days.

For a moment, she had considered going south. The weather was better (minus the threat of hurricanes) and the prices were far cheaper. But then she remembered that she was from the North. She belonged in the North. She belonged in an area that experienced the four seasons. The area where her family, both the Stark's and the Tully's, made their living, established their line, earned their reputation—she couldn't simply abandon it for her own comfort.

"What's the asking price?" she asked the agent.

At first sight, the man was an impressive guy, looking like he was some executive at an advertising agency or some hot shot lawyer. He was young, probably a couple of years younger than her. Clean-shaved, blond hair slicked back... he gave her Steve McQueen vibes. That was until he had laid eyes on Sandor and then Brienne.

Perhaps, he had realized that his smooth-talking might not pay off this time around. It was no problem for Sansa. She was in no mood for some realtor-bullshit.

"Seven-hundred and fifty thousand."

Sansa nodded. That wasn't too bad, but then she had to remember that she wasn't in the middle of Manhattan or in Beverley Hills.

"Seven-twenty-five and I'll pay it in cash."

The agent blinked a couple of times, probably wondering if the woman was joking or bluffing. He cleared his throat, skimming through the pages in his hand and looked up at the woman. "I don't think—"

"I can have the money in by tomorrow morning," Sansa offered. Sure, she could afford the place even without the Winterfresh money, but she was all about saving. To an extent-- Petyr would be proud. "I'm sure your client would appreciate that."

"You should discuss this with your husband—"

Sansa sharply turned to the man and gave him a look. "Excuse me?"

"Well, Mrs. Bolton. This decision shouldn't be made without consulting—"

"My husband  _died_  five months ago," Sansa retorted, voice dropping a few degrees. Brienne gave the agent a cautious glance, for his sake more than anything. "I will be the one buying this house. Would that be a problem?”

If it was, Sandor’s glare compelled the agent to be more diplomat. But only slightly, apparently.

“Seven hundred thousand,” Sansa then declared. “Tomorrow, delivered by noon.”

“Seven hundred…” The agent quickly read through his notes, confused, and then pointed out that, "I believe that the offer was seven hundred-twenty—"

"And I believe, it is now seven hundred," Sansa reminded the agent. "The other twenty-five is for your insinuation that I am not capable for purchasing a home with my  _own_  money because my dead husband is not here.”

“Mrs. Bolton, I was simply expressing—”

“I know what you were doing,” Sansa accused, “And honestly, I don’t appreciate it. I may not be a broker or an agent like yourself, but I know my way around a house. I know how the housing market operates.”

“I did not mean to—”

Sansa put up a hand. “Offend, I know.” She shrugged. “It happens. I suppose it’s not your fault. But if you want to make it up to me, you tell your client about the price adjustment and see what he says.”

The agent shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I cannot give him such an offer…”

“Well, then I suppose I should inform my friends—wealthy ones, may I add—that I am a very disappointed in the service I had received from you. In days, you’ll become real estate poison,” Sansa said, adding a grace to her voice that would make Catelyn proud. She didn’t want to resort to such methods, but the man really irked her. "I'm sure that won't help your brand, correct?"

The agent straightened up his stance and squared his shoulders, holding his folder close to his chest. "Mrs. Bolton, are you threatening me?"

Sandor stepped closer to the man.

"Threatening?" Sansa shook her head and chuckled. This wasn't her usual strategy, but she was tired of men second-guessing her. "Oh no, it's a promise. Seven hundred in cash by tomorrow. Sounds like a deal?"

* * *

The agent didn’t have any faith that his client would accept the offer. Seven hundred grand was fifty grand less than what had been on the market, but then Sansa would find out that the client was a connected man. A connected man who was supposedly laying on the low from the Cosa Nostra and the Lannister's (luck hadn’t been on this side this year). He knew of the Bolton name, and he damn sure knew of the Stark name.

By 7:00pm that night, the agent called Sansa, notifying her that his client had accepted the offer.

* * *

"I've underestimated you," Arya remarked, lighting up the cigarette that was in between her lips. She had picked up the habit during her time in Vietnam. "That man must've been scared shitless."

The man had been scared shitless of Sandor—she supposed that was the point of having the large, intimidating man around. Among other things.

"You weren't the only one," Sansa said quietly. Honestly, it was an annoying attribute to have. Little miss princess, always needing assistance and saving; not having a business mind of her own— but she supposed that she had no one but herself to blame. For years, she had festered the reputation, and when she had finally seen the light, it had been too late. To an extent. And now, now she learned her lesson.

"Not to switch the subject," Arya said, doing that exact thing, "So… when I left the States, this family was in trouble. Financially. I mean, not to the level of the Greyjoy's, but no reasonable person would buy a brand-new Jaguar and a house in cash without worrying about the financing..."

Sansa eyed her sister. "Where are you going with this?"

"A buddy of mine told me about this name brand of nose candy on the market," Arya said before taking a long drag. "Winterfresh."

"Arya—"

"I know that's your shit," Arya carried on. "Winterfresh. Winterfell. Catchy, I give you that." She snorted. "Honestly, I've never thought I'd see the day you become some drug lord. Or drug lady."

"I'm neither," Sansa insisted. "Just trying to keep Winterfell afloat."

"It's not a criticism," Arya said, mouth slowly turning into a smirk. "I'm impressed actually."

"Thank you."

"And I wanna help."

Sansa was taken a back. "Arya—"

Arya didn't let her finish. "Listen," she said. She had that glint her in her mind that reminded her of their mother (Arya wouldn't like such a comparison; her relationship with Catelyn was just as complicated as Sansa's). That glint that silently told the other person to just let her finish. "I got nothing to do around here. And don't worry about it being dangerous. If there was one thing venturing in the jungle in Vietnam has taught me, it's being calm under fire. Those assholes don't bother me."

The thought had honestly crossed Sansa's mind back in the summer, but she had quickly squashed it. Arya was young; although in her twenties, her sister still got mistaken for a teenager...but she tough. She could be intimidating. Even Sandor and Brienne acknowledged that fact. Jon appreciated it, and so did Sansa to an extent. She just didn't want Arya to do anything stupid; she didn't need another dead sibling. But then again, Arya was smart and she made sure the work was done at any means possible.

"I figured if I said no you would go behind my back and do it anyway," Sansa said, but quite fondly. Arya had always been known as a rebel. As for a job— She didn't want Arya to hang around here in Long Island. In the northeast. Arya would hate it. Give it two weeks and the younger would be out that door exploring goodness knew what around the world (like Bran).

“You me all too well.”

"How good is your Spanish?"

"Fluent," Arya quite proudly. "One of the guys I was working with is originally from Veracruz—it's in Mexico, if you didn’t know; he taught me Spanish to pass time. And you know, I was based out of southern Cali."

"How do you feel about going down south?"

"Hell, it ain't New York," Arya said, shrugging, but Sansa knew she was interested in the idea. She had been itching to go somewhere warm since she had gotten to Long Island. "I'm down. What do you want me to do?"

"You remember Gendry?"

Arya snorted and rolled her eyes—she was trying to appear annoyed, but despite her efforts, her motions were endearing. "Of course, I do."

"Good," Sansa said. "I'll have you work with him."

"Doing what exactly?"

"I just can't have him fly all of that Winterfresh around the US and Mexico by himself," Sansa replied. "Surely, he's capable, but he may need some reinforcements."

Arya scoffed. "That man can take care of himself."

"Not with his poor accent he can," Sansa argued. "Your presence would just make the transaction easier by making sure no one's screwing with us."

"Can I bring a gun?"

"You have a gun?"

"For protection, of course," Arya said; her signature smirked hadn’t changed over the years, the older Stark notice. "If needed."

* * *

Come to find out, Arya was a good shot.

“I thought you were only over there, taking pictures,” Sansa asked, staring in awe at her little sister’s work—each shot hit the target with amazing yet terrifying precision. Even Brienne was amazed.

Arya chuckled as she reloaded the rifle, ready to go another round.

* * *

"Did the Vietcong kidnap and turn her into a goddamn assassin?" Sandor asked his boss as they waited for Arya and Brienne to emerge from the shooting range. It might have been chilly outside, but Sansa could only watch her sister and Brienne shoot for only so long.

"Maybe the army did," Sansa suggested. Honestly, she didn't want to know.

"She's a girl. Girls ain't never in been combat."

"But she was a warzone," Sansa pointed out. "Everyone ought to know how to handle a gun."

"Yeah, but like that?"

"What?" Sansa looked up at Sandor, fighting a smile. It was interesting, to say the very least, witnessing the man's pure confusion. "Don't tell me you're scared, Mr. Clegane?"

Sandor snorted again and rolled his eyes. "I ain't scared of nothing."

* * *

Arya took one look at Theon and asked her sister, "You're into kidnapping now?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I did not kidnap him," she insisted. "I just brought him home."

Theon was currently asleep on the bed pushed against the wall of the basement. One more week and he would be transported to El Paso where he would meet his sister's allies, if everything went according to plan.

Yara had agreed to Sansa's terms.

"Is that what you're calling it now?"

Arya didn't sound mad or worried. Just a bit confused. "What the hell did he do to you?"

"He threatened to kill me if I told Ramsey about Myranda."

Arya raised an eyebrow. "Well, did you?"

"Yes, I did," Sansa replied without hesitance, and then, "If everything works out with his sister, you and Gendry will be meeting up with some people in Mexico."

"Do you think it will work out?"

"For Yara's sake, it better."

* * *

"Your release date has been pushed back," Sansa said, concerned.

Jon was supposed to be out of Rikers before Christmas.

"On a technicality," Jon said, seemingly unfazed. "I will be out the Monday after New Year's and that's a promise."

"What about probation?"

"Two years."

Sansa cursed under her breath. It wasn't much of a surprise that Jon would be on probation following his release but the problem with probation was that one under it couldn't do certain things without getting the book thrown at them.

"I advise you lay low, then."

Jon smiled. "That's what I intend to do," he said. "How's Arya's?"

"She's getting acclimated. Did you know she's fluent in Spanish?"

"Is she?" Jon nodded with approval. "Atta girl."

* * *

"Winterfresh seems to be gaining speed."

Sansa played with her drink— a simple Manhattan, nothing special— with a straw. Yes, Winterfresh, but a part of her was still self-conscious about talking about it, bragging about it to people outside of Winterfell. She looked around, but then again, almost everyone attending this little post-Thanksgiving cocktail party out in Olenna's Staten Island mini-mansion probably knew about it. "You've heard of it."

Olenna gave a dismissive wave. "Darling, everyone's heard of it."

Sansa supposed she should be honored. Winterfresh was making a splash around the United States, even into Canada. “I shouldn’t really, complain then.”

"If I was younger, I would've taken some, just to see what all you young folks are gushing about." She let out a dramatic sigh. "But alas, my doctor says I oughta keep my lungs clear."

"No cigarettes for you, then?"

Olenna shook her head. "Been off those things for quite some time."

Sansa tried to subdue her smirk; she had heard those words from Olenna before. "Meaning?"

Olenna only chuckled. "Two weeks."

"That's actually not too bad,” Sansa replied, being sincere. Smoking habits were hard to beat. "I've been trying to ween off of them, too, but with everything…”

"Oh, I understand,” Olenna said, nodding. "Business can be stressful. Even if it's successful," Olenna said, and then, "Word about Winterfresh is spreading like wildfire. What are the devils saying about it?"

Sansa checked her surroundings, cautious of eavesdroppers. The Lannister's were known for spies. Like the Soviet Union, but somehow more invasive. "Oh, goodness. Don't call them that."

"And why shouldn't I?" Olenna seemed honestly confused. But then again, she had always been known for her snide comments; only now, she could blame it on her age. "Isn't it the truth? The names fit them  _perfectly_."

It wasn't a lie, but Sansa still had to warn her, "There may be sympathizers around..."

Olenna snorted. "I am an old lady. As far as most people are concerned, all I do is sip on some tea and knit. They won't shoot me. Probably will use poison out of respect... just in case matters become... too complicated."

"Do not say things like that," Sansa chided again, shaking her head. "They will not come after you."

Olenna shrugged, seemingly not concerned as usual when it came to the Lannister's. Even after her grandchildren's untimely death (which she had mourned greatly), Olenna would only give the family dust. "If they don't, that's fine. If they do, that's fine as well. It'll be nice knowing that after all this time, I still get under their skin."

Olenna gave Sansa a knowing smirk.

Maybe that was Olenna's revenge, Sansa concluded. Always knowing that she was on the Lannister's mind. She admired her courage.

"About the Lannister's," she said, returning to the original subject of their conversation. "I haven't heard much. They have been appreciated the uptick in our donations. All on time."

"They're going to want to get the piece of the pie," Olenna pointed out. "All of it, eventually. You know they do not tolerate competition."

Sansa nodded. She knew that all too well. "Well, as if right now, they have no interest in cocaine. It doesn't fit their  _regal_ reputation."

"It will once they realize how much revenue the business generates," Olenna pointed out. "I hear they've been eyeing the Martell's... and the Grejoy’s.” She leaned forward and asked, voice lowered. "I hear Theon is back in the States,"

Sansa nodded. There almost wasn't a point in lying to Olenna; the woman seemed to know everything.

"For how long?"

"As long as it's needed," Sansa said. "After all, he still works for the Bolton's."

"Your husband is gone."

"My legal name is still Bolton."

"I'm surprised you haven't changed it yet."

"I have..." Sansa insisted. "Unofficially."

"Ah," Olenna nodded, seemingly impressed. "The man owes you."

"He owes all of us."

"Isn't that the truth," Olenna said, slightly sneering as she finished off her Sidecar. She placed the glass down and said, "I give Yara until the end of the year. If her fortunes do not change then, she's done. The Gryejoy's are done. Euron may be ambitious, but he will not bring stability to that family. To that organization."

"I'm sure the fates are on Yara's side," Sansa said, finishing off her own drink. "She's tough."

"Which is the only reason why the Greyjoy's are still kicking..."

 "Euron's is doing okay," Sansa argued. Not that she was happy about it; there was just something about a man who would kill his own brother (might be planning on killing his niece and nephew) for power that didn't sit well with her. Even though she was in a business where things like that happened all the time. "He's aligned with King's Landing. Apparently, he took control of one of Yara's last warehouses in the Caribbean."

Olenna frowned; she wasn't a fan of his either. "The Lannister's will turn on him."

"I know. And when that day comes, we shall celebrate."

"Indeed." Olenna nodded. "His downfall and the Lannister's will be sweet— Oh, don't you  _dare_  give me that look," she chided. "You are quite aware of my distaste for those devils on King's Landing," Olenna said. "Anything to bring them down, I am ready to engage. Just say the word.”

Sansa appreciated the gesture, but, "I do not intend to—"

Olenna let out a light snort, not believing her eyes. Because of the statement itself or the fact that it had come from Sansa, a woman whose family had been decimated by the Lannister's and their allies as well. "When that time comes," she said, leaving no room for an argument. "You know where to find me. I may be up there in age, and my family is all but gone, but I still have some gas in me. I will not go down without a fight."

Sansa held her breath, not knowing what to say.

And then, Olenna looked beyond Sansa and her expression soften. She rose up from her chair, after excusing herself and said in the most cheerful voice she had ever heard from the woman. " _Oh, Mary_! You finally made it. It's truly wonderful to see you face again!"

Sansa watched in amazement in Olenna's transformation from being a renegade to a society grandmother. It was night and day in seconds— something she planned to master. It had gotten Olenna this far, and she was still kicking.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Vietcong: (as per Dictionary.com) "the communist guerrilla movement in Vietnam that fought the South Vietnamese government forces 1954–75 with the support of the North Vietnamese army and opposed the South Vietnamese and US forces in the Vietnam War."
> 
> 2\. Pricing: So, I looked up the cost of 50 kg of the special powder on Google (perhaps against my better judgement. Hopefully, the DEA didn't flag anything) and adjusted the price to what it would be worth in 1968. $300k in 1968 is about $2.2 million today. $500k in today's money is about $3.7 million.
> 
> 3\. "Born to be Wild"-- I actually know this entire song by heart when I was a child thanks to my dad. Had no idea it was made in 1968. 
> 
> 3\. I absolutely adored Olenna throughout the series, especially last season when she pulled the ultimate boss move on Jaime (and Cersei).


End file.
